Chapter 12
It had been a few days since that afternoon in his truck—since the taste of him sank too deep into my skin to wash away.
Since I’d kissed him with my whole mouth, my whole damn self, and pressed every inch of my body into the way he held me.
Since we’d climbed out of that moment dazed and quiet, then climbed back into each other through every conversation that followed.
We were talking more now.
About nothing and everything. Sometimes at midnight. Sometimes at noon. It wasn’t constant, but it was steady. Measured. Like we both knew that whatever we were building could catch flame if we rushed it.
Still, I wanted to name it. To take it out of the shadows. To stop pretending this was casual when it had already started rearranging the furniture of my life.
But I didn’t. Not yet, because wanting something first had once cost me everything.
And now… I could feel myself leaning. Again. Toward him. Toward us. Toward the possibility that maybe this time he wouldn’t let go.
That night, we pulled up in front of the gallery space my firm had partnered on, a feature exhibition for one of my favorite artists, Amaya Jamison-Barkley.
I adjusted the hem of my deep wine silk gown, the fabric hugging my curves, the slit high enough to to tell all my secrets.
Tariq moved to open my door, crisp in black, his eyes warm as they dragged over me.
“Unreal,” he murmured.
I stepped out slow, meeting his gaze with a half-smile. “Good. We could use a little fantasy tonight.”
His mouth curved, but he didn’t say a word. Just offered his arm, and I took it.
Inside, the gallery pulsed with soft jazz and quiet conversation. Amaya’s latest collection was a moody, sensual blaze of color and abstraction. She painted like she felt everything too hard. I loved that about her.
We weaved through clusters of guests, champagne flutes in hand, until I spotted her. Amaya, radiant in a copper satin dress, stood beside Amir—her husband and the man whose music productions could make anyone believe in longing.
“Sanaa,” Amaya greeted me, her voice velveted with warmth. “This is stunning.”
“Your work made it easy,” I said, pulling her into a quick embrace before turning to Tariq. “This is Tariq Hunt.”
Tariq extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Amir shook his hand with a calm smile. “Likewise. Beautiful night for beautiful things.”
We lingered in conversation for a moment, admiration exchanged in subtle glances and quiet affirmations. And then we moved on, Tariq’s hand pressing lightly at the small of my back.
He leaned close as we stopped before one of Amaya’s bolder canvases—a riot of crimson and ash gray, all movement and ache.
“You always knew you’d be here, didn’t you?” he asked.
I sipped from my glass. “I hoped. But there were times I wasn’t sure. Those early years…” I glanced at him. “I was barely scraping. I remember calling you once, trying to convince myself to stay in it.”
His eyes didn’t leave the canvas. “I remember that call. I also remember I told you it was only a matter of time before people would be coming to you to secure their art.”
That he remembered—that he’d carried that too—did something to me.
He watched me then. Openly.
“You glow in this room, Sanaa.”
“I belong in it.”
“Damn right you do.”
We moved through the night like that. Talking low. Fingers brushing. Sharing bites of food neither of us cared about. Existing inside a current only we seemed to notice.
By the time we left, I didn’t want distance.
I wanted him.
Back at his place, I felt whatever armor I had left, dissolving.
He kissed me in the hallway, hands sliding the silk down my arms. We undressed slow.
The shower steamed around us. We washed each other in unhurried passes. His hands lingered. Mine did too. Every touch said we were relearning something we’d once known by instinct.
It was gentler than before. But steadier. Like we weren’t trying to prove anything anymore.
Later, wrapped in towels, we curled on the couch. A movie played low. I couldn’t tell you what it was about.
“You warm enough?” he asked.
“Mmmhmm.”
He pulled me closer anyway.
I let myself settle into him. Let my body rest. Let my mind stop negotiating. I realized, somewhere between one breath and the next, that I wasn’t bracing anymore. I was already in.
We made love slowly. Not urgent. Not desperate. Just present. The kind of closeness that doesn’t demand—it stays. And afterward, tangled in his sheets, I stared into the quiet and realized I wasn’t afraid of loving him again.
I was afraid he might not love me back the same way.
I stirred before him the next morning, blinking into the soft light. His arm rested heavily across my waist. Familiar. Protective. Easy.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Once. Then again.
The name read: Tiana.
I didn’t touch it. Didn’t react.
But something inside me stilled. I waited.
He cracked an eye open. “You okay?”
“Your phone’s been buzzing.”
He saw the name. Exhaled.
“I’m not seeing her anymore,” he said.
“But you were.”
“From time to time.”
“You mean fuck,” I said calmly.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
I let the honesty sit. It didn’t wound me the way it might have once.
Because we hadn’t promised anything.
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s all?”
“Would you prefer a scene?”
I for damn sure didn’t want to talk about my “not anymore” names.
He studied me. “No. I just don’t want you pretending you don’t care.”
I turned toward him. “I care enough to wonder what this is. Whether I’m standing in something real… or just passing through.”
“You’re not passing through,” he said. “You never were.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t want anyone else—I was you—us—to be back in,” he continued. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to say that yet.”
There it was.
“You just did,” I whispered.
I leaned into him, our foreheads touching. And for the first time since we found our way back to each other, my mind went quiet. I was no longer waiting for the other shoe.
All I felt was peace.