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The crowd lost it—but I only saw him.

And when he reached me, everything else melted away. The noise. The lights. The spectacle.

All that remained was us.

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me—soft and sure and deep. Not for the cameras. Not for the headlines. But for every moment we’d been apart. Every fear we’d laid down. Every promise we hadn’t spoken but had already started to keep.

My knees nearly buckled, but his hands held me firm.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. The mic caught the whisper he gave only to me…

“All of me is yours.”

My heart split open. Not from hurt—but from the fullness. And this time, I didn’t cry. I just held his face, thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth, and gave him the only truth I had left.

“I know.”

THIRTY-THREE

The cheesesteak was messy—grease slicking the paper wrap, onions slipping out with every bite, hot sauce painting the corner of my mouth.

Taraj watched me devour it with amused disbelief, his own half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand.

“I’ve seen you take down a stage in six-inch boots,” he said,voice low, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But this might be your most savage performance.”

I licked my thumb slow, then raised a brow. “Don’t disrespect the art.”

His laugh was warm, quiet, thick with something heavier than humor. He leaned back against the brick wall behind us, elbows propped, gaze locked on me like I was a song he was trying to memorize.

And just like that, it hit me.

New York. That night with the pizza slice and the streetlight catching the edge of his smile. How he’d looked at me like I was half sin, half miracle. Eyes dark, hungry, reverent. Like every bite I took made him harder.

He was looking at me the same way now.

Same smolder. Same restraint.

Like he was already playing back the sounds I made in his bed. Like he was counting the minutes until he could strip me down and eat every damn thing I left on the wrapper.

My stomach flipped, heat curling low and slow.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just kept watching.

And Lord, I felt it.

Between my thighs. In the rise of my chest. In the pulse beneath my skin that beat like a drum made just for him.

We were tucked into a narrow alley off South Street, posted up in front of a no-name cheesesteak spot with no signage, just a window, a bell, and a line that always curled down the block.

Locals knew.

But now…

Thanks to a teenager who caught us mid-bite and whispered, “Wait—is that Sienna and Taraj?” loud enough to summon the TikTok gods, a different kind of line started to form.

Two girls in pastel hoodies fake-scrolled nearby, stealingglances. A guy in a Sixers jersey pointed at Taraj like he couldn’t believe it. One woman stood across the street, hand to her chest, tears in her eyes just from looking at us.