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I offered a small wave.

That was all it took.

Phones came out like the spectators they were.

“Is it really you?”

“Oh my God, I just watched your Florence performance again—All of Youhad me in tears.”

“Taraj, bro… that last verse onHeavy Soul? Whew. Sermon.”

We took pictures. Signed a napkin. Hugged a woman whose hands were shaking. Taraj kept one hand on the small of my back the whole time, eyes scanning the crowd, soft but steady. Protective without words.

We’d been moving without security because I trusted my people, but one never really knew, so I understood his position.

Eventually, a man in an apron popped out the front door, waving a dish towel.

“Y’all good, but we gotta move the crowd,” he said with a grin.

That earned a round of laughs, a few more selfies, and then it was just us again. Brick wall. Grease-stained paper. The buzz of the city around us.

And the heat of his stare, still on me like he couldn’t wait to finish what I’d started with that first bite.

I let the silence hang, then met his gaze head-on.

“What?” I asked, licking the last of the sauce from my thumb slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t answer. Just tilted his head and smiled like he knew exactly what I was doing—and loved it.

“I’m just saying,” I went on, dropping the crumpled wrapper into the bag between us. “You keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna have to find a dark corner somewhere.”

His jaw flexed.

“You don’t think I’ve already been thinking about that?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-rich. “Since bite one.”

A flutter shot down my spine. I moved in closer, toes brushing his. “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

He stepped forward, real close, his mouth just shy of mine.

“Oh, I will,” he said, voice silky smooth. “But not in some alley with people still around the corner pretending they’re not listening.”

“Obviously not.”

His hand found my waist like it was home, fingers splayed wide, warm through the fabric. And I swear, if the cheesesteak hadn’t already done it, that touch alone would’ve melted me.

“We’re not gonna make it through dessert, are we?” I asked, already breathless.

“Thatwasdessert,” he said. “You’re the main course.”

I gasped—laughed, swatted his arm, but my thighs pressed together anyway. Because I knew him.

And when he looked at me like this? He meant every filthy word.

Distraction had a way of interrupting a good thing, however. My phone buzzed.

Brielle: Need your eyes on this pitch deck. They’re asking about a third leg of the tour.

Seconds later?—