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“I feel you in the silence

In the breath between the lines

You touch me like a memory

And leave me every time…”

The last note stretched long, thin, aching.

I sang it again. Softer this time. Drew the wordleaveout until it nearly broke. Until I almost did.

Behind the glass, I caught Amir lean back like he’d felt it in his spine. Myles twisted a dial. And Taraj—he didn’t move. Just stared like he was watching something bloom.

Then he stood and crossed the space like the floor didn’t exist. Quiet steps. Intentional hands.

He stepped into the booth with me without saying a word.

Just a bottle of water pressed into my hand and fingers on the mic stand, adjusting it like it was muscle memory. Like he was used to touching things into place.

“Thanks,” I murmured. My voice wasn’t quiet—it wasexposed.

“Your tone,” he said, leaning close enough that I felt the words ghost across my cheek. “It doesn’t just land. It lingers.”

The wayhelingered. Like that night at the gallery. Like this morning in the hallway. Like every second since.

He stepped back—but not far.

The instrumental restarted. And then he crooned out his verse.

“You haunt my hands

Every time I reach for sleep

Your name don’t echo in the room

But it echoes in me…”

Each word poured like smoke. Deep. Unbothered. Sensual like it wasn’t trying to be.

He glanced over, voice still velvet. “You wanna come in on the hook?”

I stepped forward. The mic rose to meet me like it knew what I needed.

“Don’t speak it

Don’t name it

Let it stay wild

Let it stay dangerous…”

Our eyes met. Again. And that time it hit different.

Because we weren’t just laying down vocals. We were pushing up against something that hadn’t been touched yet—but wanted to be.

That’s when Amir’s voice came through the speaker. “Y’all ready to take that from the top?”

We didn’t look away.