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And I had no idea where it came from.

Before Brielle could respond, the door opened behind me.

And I felt it.

Not the air shift. Not the sound.

Taraj Ferrell didn’t walk in—hearrived. Like the room bent to make space for him. Like silence followed him on instinct.

All black. Jacket, jeans, hoodie layered underneath. A single gold chain caught the light at his collarbone. His skin was a smooth, deep chestnut—rich and warm even under the gallery lights. Tall. Lean but strong, like his body was carved for rhythm. That kind of quiet athleticism you only noticed if you paid attention to the way a man moved.

His hair was braided back, neat and sharp. His jawline clean. And his lips…

Full. Soft-looking. Kissable. But it was his eyes that got me. Dark brown, deep-set, and soulful. The kind of eyes that looked like they’d seen something real—and never forgot it.

Our eyes locked. Not flirty—not invasive.

Just…present.

Like he saw me. All of me. Like he was patient enough to wait for the rest.

I hated that I noticed.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That chemistry was just proximity and projection. That I’d felt attraction before. But not like this.

Never like this.

And definitely not with someone I was about to collaborate with—under cameras, under timelines, inside a narrative someone else designed.

Jalen, his manager, stepped in behind him and gave Brielle a quick chin nod. The two of them walked forward, launching into the pitch like we hadn’t all rehearsed this in different rooms with different words.

“This is just a vibe check,” Brielle said, placing a hand lightly on my back. “No pressure.”

“Just some face time,” Jalen added. “Let y’all feel each other out. See if it makes sense.”

“Figuratively,” Brielle said quickly, when Jalen glanced between us. “Not literally. Y’all grown.”

They both laughed. That light, easy kind of laugh people give when they’re already syncing up.

I didn’t.

Neither did Taraj.

We didn’t need to.

Brielle and Jalen disappeared into the hallway like they’d been waiting on an excuse. I clocked the shared look between them. Not romantic. But something professional was settling into place—familiar, promising. Like two people who knew this wouldn’t be their last collaboration.

And now it was just us.

Alone.

He didn’t sit across from me.

He walked beside me instead, his shoulder almost grazing mine as we moved through the gallery. Quiet. Unbothered.Like the room was his to own and I was the only one in it worth engaging.

The space held stillness—brick walls kissed by warm light, hardwood floors that carried our steps like rhythm. But the true draw was on the walls. Art that didn’t just hang. It haunted.

Nia Holloway. I’d followed her work for years. First through blog posts. Then in glossy features and curated pop-ups. Her canvases were honest. Black and woman and unfiltered. She didn’t paint what she thought we wanted. She painted what we survived.