Page 74 of The Spark

I was here. Really here.

And Amir…his name was everywhere.

Night Things had skyrocketed, and now he was working with artists he used to dream about producing for. He had been pulled into a new project, this time with Sienna Ray, a powerhouse vocalist with Jazmine Sullivan-level pipes that could shake the damn walls.

Sienna and I had clicked instantly—she respected my work, and I loved hers.

She had this cool, lowkey confidence. Skin like sun-warmed bronze, thick curls pinned into a soft puff that framed her face just right. Her voice had weight—rich and raw, like it came from somewhere deep—and when she sang, the whole room shifted.

The session wasn’t just Amir and Sienna.

A third voice drifted through the glass—low, even, with that Pittsburgh cadence that always made me smile.

“Run that last one again, Sienna. You caught magic on the back end.”

Myles. Amir’s longtime sound engineer—big, chubby, quiet as hell unless it counted. Always wore a hoodie, always had a cherry toothpick tucked between his lips, and always heard things no one else did.

He wasn’t around much in the early stages of Taraj’s album or Sienna’s. Was out West running a lo-fi tape label, producing moody instrumental projects with anime samples and beats that felt like rainy day therapy. But for this project, Amir called him in.

They’d been tight since college and no matter how big Amir got, he worked better when Myles was in the room.

You could feel it in the way things just… clicked.

“Amaya, this concept is insane,” Sienna said, stepping back to admire the artwork I had pulled up for her. “You did this in one sitting? Girl. No wonder Amir is always bragging about you.”

I smirked, glancing at my man across the studio.

He was standing by the console, one hand on the fader, the other rubbing his beard, watching her run through a verse. The deep concentration on his face, the way he nodded when she hit the right note, the way he lived inside the music?—

God, I loved him.

And just like that, as if sensing my stare, he turned—his dark brown eyes locking onto mine.

I bit my lip. That look meant he was up to something.

And I was about to find out what.

The session wrapped up, and as we headed out, Amir threw his arm around my waist, pulling me close.

"You free tonight?" he murmured against my ear.

I glanced up at him, my brows lifting. "You asking me on a date, Barkley?"

His lips twitched into that lazy, cocky smirk. "Something like that."

I side-eyed him, but I knew better than to argue. Amir didn’t do casual plans. Whatever he had up his sleeve was deliberate.

We went back to my brownstone, our space, where he had damn near moved in. His condo had been ready for months, but neither of us wanted to leave the rhythm we had built.

And tonight he was looking at me like he wanted to ruin my whole damn night before we even left.

But instead, he went to get dressed, telling me to do the same.

I walked into my bedroom, already anticipating his reaction.

I chose a black silk Mugler mini dress—sharp cut at the waist, with a plunging back that dipped low enough to make my spine feel like a story. It barely skimmed the tops of my thighs, clung like it was made for me, and shimmered when I walked. I paired it with sheer Wolford tights and sky-high strappy Amina Muaddi heels that made my legs look like a sculpture.

No glasses tonight.

---