Chapter 5
5
T he studio had always been my escape.
The one place where everything made sense. Where I could drown out the noise, sink into the music, and forget about everything else.
But today that shit wasn’t happening.
Not when I still had the image of Amaya burned into the back of my mind—standing in her kitchen, sleepy-eyed and barefoot, her oversized tee barely covering the curve of her ass. The way she looked at me when she took that first bite of pancake, like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. The sound she made when she chewed—soft, sweet, completely unaware of how it had fucked me up for the entire damn day.
I adjusted myself in my seat, exhaling through my nose as I scrolled through the session files. I needed to get my head in the game, focus on the track I was supposed to be laying down with an artist today. But the second I tried to cue up the beat, my mind drifted again.
To her.
To the way we kept getting too close. The brushes, the glances, the weight of tension so thick I could taste it.
And to the fact that, last night, when we watched The Photograph , I knew she was feeling it too. I’d seen the way she shifted, the way her thighs pressed together, the way her breathing changed. I felt the way the air between us stretched tight, thick with something we weren’t acknowledging.
I wanted to.
I wanted to lean over, drag my fingers up her bare thigh, and slide them beneath those tiny-ass shorts she always wore around the apartment like she wasn’t testing every bit of my restraint. I wanted to find out just how wet she was, how long she’d been sitting there aching for me.cI wanted her to remember that one time, she let me go further… that one time I had a taste of her.
But I didn’t.
Because once I touched her again, I wasn’t gonna want to stop.
I exhaled sharply and clicked play on the track, letting the bass roll through the speakers. The artist I was working with, a Grammy-nominated R&B singer, was supposed to be pulling up soon, and I needed to be ready. This was a big deal. The kind of collaboration that could finally push my name into the mainstream. I should’ve been excited. I should’ve been fully focused on making sure everything sounded right.
Instead, I was thinking about how I had spent the last year convincing myself I didn’t want Amaya like that for real.
A fucking lie.
A knock on the glass snapped me back to reality.
I checked the time. I had a break before the next session, long enough to grab a drink, stretch, and maybe clear my head. But instead, I reached for my phone.
Without thinking, I hit her number. I rarely ever texted her. Not like I did with everyone else. With Amaya, it had always been calls. And we always answered. Always called back. Except for that one time.
Jasmine. Yeah, that was her name. A woman I had no business being with, who had no business thinking she could dictate my life. I didn’t even realize what she’d done until I saw Amaya at her graduation party, her face set in something close to disappointment. It wasn’t until she let it slip—how she’d called me that night, how I’d never answered—that I pieced it together. Jasmine had put my phone on silent, making sure I never got the call.
I ended things that night.
The phone rang twice before Amaya answered. "Calling me on a break? You must really miss me."
I smirked, my shoulders easing at the sound of her voice. "You wouldn’t believe how bored I am without you."
"Mmmhmm." I could hear the smile in her voice. "How’s the session going?"
"It’s going. You?"
"Actually," she exhaled, her tone bright, "I finally finished the commission! Well, mostly finished. Still needs some touches, but it’s there."
My lips parted, an unexpected wave of pride washing over me. "That’s dope, Amaya. Lemme see."
She groaned. "Amir, you know I hate showing my work before it’s completely ready."
"Come on, you know I got the best eyes in the game."
"Ugh, fine. Hold on." A few seconds passed before my phone buzzed with a message.
I opened the image, and something in my chest tightened.
The piece was stunning. A Black woman, her skin the deep warmth of brown earth, standing beneath a cosmic sky. Her hair was full, wild, textured clouds curling into a galaxy that seemed to breathe. Her eyes—star-shaped, glowing—looked up, reaching as if calling on something bigger, something divine. The colors bled into one another seamlessly, blues melting into purples, streaks of gold illuminating the edges of her form. It was dreamlike. Ethereal.
And it was her.
Amaya wasn’t just talented. She was brilliant. A force.
I’d watched her grow into this, piece by piece. From the girl who used to sketch in the margins of her notebooks to the woman who poured her whole soul into every line and brushstroke. I remembered when she used to come to school with charcoal smudges on her fingers, or when she'd disappear for hours in her room, emerging with paint in her braids and a light in her eyes. Even back then, I knew she saw the world differently—felt it differently.
Where I heard rhythm, she saw light. Where I broke down beats, she built up color. We both made art from nothing—but her gift felt like it came from someplace divine.
I didn’t realize I had gone silent until I heard her hesitant, "Amir?"
I cleared my throat, my voice lower, quieter. "A… it’s incredible."
Silence stretched between us. When she finally spoke, it was softer, almost shy. "You really think so?"
My fingers gripped my phone. "I know so. It’s… I don’t even have words. You’re magic."
Her breath hitched. It was barely audible, but I caught it. Felt it.
Something moved in my chest, something heavy, something dangerous. I ignored it. "We gotta celebrate. I’m taking you out."
She laughed. "Oh… you are?"
"Yeah. No arguments. Just be ready."
When we hung up, I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone, thumb grazing the screen.
I’d had a lot of conversations in my life.
But only when I talked to her did I feel like I could see the future stretching out in front of me. A whole life. A home. A forever.
I turned toward the booth just as Myles lifted two fingers, giving me the signal.
Session was about to start. I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake it off.
Myles didn’t talk much—especially not mid-session—but his presence was steady. He’d been in and out of the studio depending on the session load. I didn’t always need a full engineer—especially when I was experimenting solo or just tracking rough vocals. But when Taraj was ready to lock the track down to the syllable, Myles was essential.
We’d been tight since college. Built from basements and borrowed gear. He ran his own lo-fi label now—quiet drops, dusty beats, anime samples paired with heartbreak. A different lane from mine, but his ears were unmatched.
When he was in the room, I could stop worrying about the board and focus on what mattered: the artist, the music, the story we were trying to tell.
Which is what I needed to do right now. Get focused. Handle business.
Even if part of me was still back in that last conversation—with her.
Even if every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her.
But I already knew—the second I got back to that apartment, the second I saw her again—I was gonna be right back where I started.