Chapter 2
2
I ’d only been here for a few hours, and already, Amaya’s place felt like home.
Not because it was familiar, but because it was her.
That same soft, lingering scent of cocoa butter, vanilla, and something deeper—something warm, something that had been lodged in the back of my mind for years, no matter how much I tried to push it away. It clung to the air, to the blankets, to my skin.
I exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed in the spare bedroom, dragging a hand down my face. This was about to be a problem.
A real, fucking problem.
Because Amaya Jameson wasn’t just beautiful. She was the kind of fine that got under your skin. That took up space in your mind. The kind you felt in your gut. And now I had nowhere to escape it.
The room was nicer than I expected—but that was Amaya. She always had good taste, even back in the day when she was decorating her bedroom walls with postcards from museum gift shops and thrifted fabric she swore looked “textured, not cheap.”
But this space was grown. Intentional. An extension of her.
The walls were lined with art—some hers, some not. I recognized her brushstrokes immediately. Soft, fluid lines. Messy color stories that still somehow made perfect sense. A piece with charcoal shading caught my eye, and I smiled. She’d always had a soft spot for the grit of dry mediums, even though her digital work was what made people stop scrolling.
A sleek black bookshelf stretched along one wall, stacked high with thick-ass art history books that probably cost more than my entire sneaker collection. Graphic novels she used to rave about were tucked next to books on Black futurism, sketch pads, and well-worn portfolios. I spotted a Zadie Smith paperback, some Baldwin, and a limited edition Basquiat monograph she once said she’d save up for—guess she finally got it.
She didn’t just have good taste. She had vision. A way of seeing the world that turned spaces, people, memories—me—into art.
Everything about this place screamed her . And maybe that’s what had me feeling restless.
I sat back, stretching my legs out, letting my head tip against the wall. I should’ve said no.
When my mom called me last week, I already knew she was about to finesse something.
"Baby, I just got off the phone with Beverly," she’d started, all casual, which meant she was absolutely up to something. "We were talking, and with your condo being a mess, we figured it’d be nice if you stayed with Amaya for a little while."
I had groaned, rubbing my temple. "Ma ? —"
"What? You need a place, she’s got the space. It makes sense."
It was too logical. Too easy. And I already knew Beverly was sitting in the background, probably sipping tea, co-signing the hell out of this like our mothers hadn’t been scheming for years.
"I’ll figure something else out."
"Why?" My mother’s voice had turned knowing. That dangerous mama tone that always meant she was about to get in my business. "You single. She single. So it won’t be a sore spot for anyone."
That had made me pause. Amaya was single?
Last I knew, she had been entertaining them damn dating apps. Entertaining men who had no business being in the same room as her. I knew a year ago she was talking to some finance dude—bragging about how refreshing it was to have a man with a plan.
I had made sure that plan ended real quick. Not that she ever found out.
He slipped up and mentioned her name at an event I was at—cocky, loud, talking slick like she was already his. I let him talk. Smiled even. Then made a quiet call to one of my boys who worked in commercial lending and just so happened to know all the skeletons in that man’s professional closet.
A couple of weeks later, she stopped posting date-night pics.
And the guy ghosted her like his whole damn reputation depended on it.
Because it did. Fuck outta here.
I cleared my throat. "When’d she break up with that guy?"
My mom hummed. "I don’t know. But from what Beverly says, she’s been focused on her art."
That tracked. I’d been watching her IG for months—every post, every drop of something new. Scanning for a man in the background, but all I ever saw was her work. And damn, her work… It had always been good. But lately it was something else.
Charcoal that made you feel like you were standing in the memory with her. Digital portraits that pulsed with color, light, and soul. Watercolor pieces with so much softness and emotion they felt like they’d melt if you stared too long.
Amaya was never just one kind of artist. She used whatever medium she needed to tell the truth. And her truth was vivid. Raw. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, but always real .
I’d known it since we were kids.
Back when we’d sit on stoops and talk about the lives we wanted. She’d be sketching on napkins, drawing people in motion—her teachers, her cousins, me. And I’d be banging out beats on the side of the table, thinking I was slick. She always noticed. Always nodded like she heard something more than just rhythm.
And now here we were, grown, both living what we dreamed of… separately.
Mom must’ve sensed I was considering it because I could hear the smile in her voice. "So, I’ll tell Beverly you’re staying?"
I sighed. "You already did, didn’t you?"
She laughed. "Let me know when you get there, baby."
And just like that, my fate was sealed.
I could have put up a fight. I should have. But the moment I opened my mouth to shut it down, something made me stop.
Maybe it was the fact that I knew I’d rather stay somewhere that felt familiar. Maybe it was that, even after all these years, being around Amaya still felt like home.
Instead of refusing outright, I let my mom go on and on, playing it off like I was being dragged into this, when deep down, I knew I could’ve said no.
I could’ve stayed somewhere else. But I didn’t. Because I wanted this. And that should’ve been my first warning.
I pushed up from the bed, shaking that thought loose. I had to keep my head straight. I had for this long, hadn’t I?
A knock on the door pulled me out of my head. "Food’s here," Amaya called from the other side.
I took a slow breath, adjusting my sweats because just the sound of her voice had my dick twitching. This was muscle memory at this point.
How many nights had I woken up like this? Stomach tight, body aching, skin too hot from the dreams that never stopped coming?
Dreams of her. Of her body beneath me, soft and willing.
Of my mouth tracing her skin, my tongue teasing those thick nipples that always pressed against her tops like they wanted my attention. Of gripping her thighs as she rode me slow, the sound of her moans making my dick throb even in my sleep.
I’d wake up messy, the evidence of my desire smeared on my stomach or my thigh, chest rising and falling as I tried to shake the feeling. But it never went away. Not really.
I ran a hand over my beard, forcing my dick to chill the hell out, and stepped into the living room.
She was already setting up takeout on the coffee table, her bare legs tucked under her, shoulders relaxed like she’d finally exhaled. The rich, spiced scent of jerk chicken for me, jerk salmon for her, rice and peas, and plantains filled the air—comfort food, the kind you could lose yourself in.
D’Angelo was playing through the speakers, “You’re My Lady” low and slow, floating through the space like incense smoke.
I paused.
That song—hell. I’d heard it a thousand times, but tonight, the lyrics hit different. Hit a little too close.
You're my lady...
It was everything I was trying not to think about. Everything I couldn’t stop thinking about. Her.
I forced the thought down, hard, as I walked over to join her. It had been a long-ass day, and I wasn’t about to turn down some good food and time to unwind just because my libido was on overdrive around her.
We sat on the floor, like we had a hundred times before, but this time, it felt different.
Maybe it was the way she looked tonight—like she wasn’t trying, but still managed to make my mouth dry. Even with her big framed glasses that made me ache to see her eyes beneath, she was everything.
She was in a tiny crop top, one that barely sat beneath her petite breasts, showing off that smooth, flat belly. Her skin glowed, soft brown, untouched and perfect, and it took everything in me not to stare.
Or maybe I was staring, because when she caught me, her lips parted just slightly, her tongue flicking out to wet them before she looked away.
Fuck. I should’ve never moved in here.
"You still eat like a child," I muttered, watching her pick through her food, pushing the onions to one side like they personally offended her.
She shot me a look. "And you still eat like you got three stomachs."
I smirked, popping a piece of chicken into my mouth. "Gotta feed the gains."
She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
It felt easy, like it always had. Except for the tension sitting between us, thick and unspoken.
I felt it every time she looked at me too long. Every time her eyes flickered to my mouth. Every time she crossed her legs, like she was trying to stop herself from something she didn’t even want to name. And I wasn’t gonna lie—I liked it.
I shifted, stretching my legs out, letting my thigh brush hers just enough to make her breath hitch.
She swallowed hard, stabbing at her food like it had done something to her. "You’re annoying."
I chuckled. "You love it."
She didn’t respond, just shook her head and focused on her plate.
But I saw the way she squeezed her thighs together. And yeah—I loved that shit.
But I also knew that if I were to do anything about the thick vibes between me and Amaya, I needed to be all the way ready. And that was always the challenge. Being ready to love her right.