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“Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch me like that when I’m already weak.”

He kissed my shoulder. “Thought you liked when I made you weak.”

“I do.” My body betrayed me, leaning back into him. “But I’m tryna finish breakfast.”

He moved slower then—hands still trailing higher, mouth grazing my neck.

“Let it burn.”

Then he turned me.

What followed was the kind of soft chaos only we knew how to make—a kiss that unspooled into something deeper, hungrier. Me on the counter. Him inside me. No camera. No beat. Just us. Raw. Full. Mine.

The French toast survived. Barely.

I plated it anyway, drowning his in syrup just to be petty.

Taraj didn’t mind.

He sat across from me in only sweats, shirtless, brown skin glowing in the sun. One of my hair ties was looped around his wrist, taming his twists. His chain caught the morning light, and for a moment, everything felt right-sized again. Just us and this quiet.

“You good?” he asked, stealing a piece from my plate, licking syrup from his thumb.

I nodded, then paused. Tilted my head.

“What are we doing?”

He leaned back in his chair, something thoughtful passing through his eyes.

“Eating breakfast,” he teased.

“Raj.”

His smirk faded, just a little. “We’re figuring it out.”

“That’s what this is?”

“It is for me,” he said, simple and true.

I let that settle. Let myself believe it.

“Me too,” I said.

Five minutes later, a knock shattered the peace.

Three raps. Clean. No hesitation.

Taraj stood, pulling on a shirt as he crossed to the door. He cracked it open, brow furrowing as two men came into view—one in a black windbreaker with the label’s logo, the other in a tailored suit and mirrored sunglasses, an earpiece coiled at his jaw.

“Corporate security,” the first said, holding up his badge.

Taraj didn’t move. “For what?”

“There was a crowd outside your building this morning,” the second one said. “Your location’s made it to a few fan accounts. The label doesn’t want things to escalate.”

I stilled, coffee halfway to my lips.