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“I don’t talk about my past often,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Too many people shape it to fit their version of me.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And what’s your version?”

I hesitated but only for a moment. His directness was thrilling, and not intrusive. “Still forming. But I want it to feel like mine. Not theirs.”

He nodded, slow. Like he understood.

“I didn’t want this collab,” I said.

“Me neither.”

“But here we are.”

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice lower now, like it wasn’t just about this anymore, “fate dresses like strategy.”

I looked at him again, sharper. “You believe in fate?”

“I believe in timing. And this?” His eyes stayed steady. “Feels like both.”

He let the words sit. Didn’t try to follow them. Just let thembe.

“You always this poetic?”

“Only when the room deserves it.”

My mouth parted slightly. I hated how that hit me.

“You always this hard to read?” he countered.

“Only when I’m deciding if I care.”

His mouth twitched. Not a grin. Just that quiet flicker that said he liked women who didn’t flinch.

The air between us thickened—not tense. Justaware. Like something deep inside my chest was leaning forward without permission.

“What are you looking for in all this?” I asked.

“To create something that don’t feel like a campaign.”

“And if it does?”

He looked over at the nearest painting. One with a woman floating, but barely.

“Then I’ll know I lost something I can’t afford to lose.”

“What’s that?”

“Myself.”

I stood with that. Because I’d almost lost mine, too.

We talked a little about the track—where it would begin, what might anchor it. But it felt secondary. The song had already started between us.

Eventually, he moved. Slow. Smooth. Rising like themoment didn’t need to end—but could shift into something else.

I stood too, and as I turned slightly, my hand brushed his. Skin to skin. A light, fleeting touch—nothing overt.

But my body betrayed me.