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Taré’s fury abates, but the hurt doesn’t. It stays glimmering in her orange and blue shadowed eyes.

‘Wedon’t have a history,’ says Taré.‘History is five years of dating, which, by the way, is very easily accessed on the internet once you know what you’re looking for. And the only reason I even snooped is that, I swear, even if you guys were discussing what to have for lunch it felt like I was watching a very specific porn category. And don’t look at me like that–again, I don’t care as long as you get the job done, but what Idocare about is trust. You don’t owe me anything, but you basically lied to me and by the time I figured it out, it was proven that you’re both excellent at your jobs. I’m crazy about lying. You know how many people I’ve worked closely with to find out I couldn’t trust?’

I nod. ‘I do. Which is weirdly why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t trust us. Which is fucked up, I know—’

The annoyance on Taré’s face relaxes into a grudging softening. ‘Look.I also know how it feels to care about something enough not to risk it, and I want to believe you care about the project.’

‘We do,’ Malakai adds, ‘and it was also a joint decision. It’s our business and we didn’t want it to be a distraction from our work, but we’re sorry that it felt like we were playing you. We weren’t trying to do that, Taré. The thing is, though, Kiki’s vision alongside yours helps form the soul of it, and if you really think that this is inappropriate I don’t mind coming off the project.’

I whip round and stare at him. ‘Malakai, what are you talking about? You can’t—’

Malakai’s eyes drift easily to me, his voice calm, low, a rippling lake. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Kiki.’

My blood spikes. His tone is gentle but firm, and I know he’s serious. While this is enraging on its own, what’s even more frustrating is the immediate fizz it sends through my veins, the challenge that’s piqued. ‘Um, I can when what you want to do doesn’t make sense. You do realise that by leaving you’d be making a decision for both of us? We work together. We’re a team. My work works because you get it. You’re not being some kind of knight in shining armour by doing this. You’re being arrogant. Why don’t you consider the fact that I actuallywantto work with you?’

Malakai’s gaze softens and Taré scoffs loudly, shaking her head, her lips twisted in bemusement. ‘Are you guys serious with this shit?No oneis leaving. I have spent too much money already, I don’t have time to replace you and you guys are doing a great job. It’s not a big deal, I just want to make sure it doesn’t interfere with my shit.’ She rises, elegantly, a sprite on a cloud, her skirt shimmering with the movement. ‘OK, I’m bored with this. We’re going to continue and from now on we’re going to be straight up with each other. No bullshit.’

‘Of course.’

‘Absolutely.’

But before she reaches the door she throws one last thing at us. ‘I just hope you know that hiding it makes it a bigger deal than it is? Because if there was truly nothing going on between you then telling me wouldn’t be a thing. So maybe think about what you’re running away from.’

When she leaves, Malakai and I are sat in a silence that’s as loud as my crashing thoughts. I hate running. Malakai clears his throat as he casts his eye across my flat; the rug of pink, blue and yellow geometric shapes over the pale slate laminated flooring, my pink arm chair, the Kerry James Marshall and Deborah Segun prints, framed pictures of me and the girls. My favourite thing about this place are the wide windows my parents put in that show peeks of the east London skyline, and they pour sleepy sunlight in from the satiated early summer day, illuminating the room. ‘This is a really cool place you’ve carved for yourself, Scotch—’

I shrug. ‘Thanks. It’s small but—’

‘Nah. You’ve made it big. It’s you. Colourful. Full of life. Bright. Bold.’

I look at him, and his eyes are an earnest beam. ‘Thanks. I’m proud of it,’ and I want to say thank you for helping me keep it, but I remember what Meji said, so I keep my gratitude tucked in my throat. Instead I say, breath hitched, ‘What are you going to do when you go back?’

He shrugs as he picks up a coffee table book,Called To The Camera: Black American Studio Photographersand flicks through, absently. ‘More of the same. I’ll figure it out.’

I swallow. It isn’t till this moment that I realise that I bought it because it reminded me of him; or more accurately, because of the interests he piqued in me by his passion. ‘You were miserable at work.’

‘Maybe I didn’t try hard enough to not be.’

‘I don’t think that’s how it works. And Kai, you were going to quit this job? What’s that about?’

‘If it meant you would stay on. It’s not a big deal, Kiki.’

‘Nah. Don’t do that. It’s a big deal. This gig could help you make your film.’ I clear my throat, venture in carefully, picking through my words, ‘It’s . . . it’s about your dad, isn’t it? Kai, you have to make that film.’

Malakai puts the book down and glances across the room, his gaze snagging on my record collection next to my player. His face breaks open in a small smile before releasing a low whistle. ‘Of course she has her own collection going. Do you mind if I—’

I shake my head, distinctly aware of the fact that he’s avoiding my question. He bends over the black metal stand, flicking through, and I try not to marvel at the fact that Malakai is here in the space I created after we were no more, and he’s moving through it with ease, as if he belongs, as if he were always here, his warm, spicy-amber scent filling up the space and making itself at home.

He clears his throat, not looking at me as he sorts through the vinyl, speaking casually, ‘I think it’s good what we’ve done together. This time in London, working on this, with you, has been good. Despite our shit. I’m glad I got to do it with you. Made me remember what it’s like to make something I love. That I’m proud of. Like I feel like your voice has clarified my eye. And that’s made me feel more like myself again. Whether I make the film or not, I’m grateful for that.’

Why does it feel like he’s saying goodbye again? My chest twists as he pulls out a record – D’Angelo’sVoodoo. He looks at me now, quirks a brow, ‘Can I?’

I nod, a leaden ball in my throat, my eyes inexplicably stinging. He carefully slides the vinyl out of its sleeve as I say, ‘I’m still on the hunt for the originalBrown Sugarvinyl. Someone outbid me.’

He kisses his teeth. ‘Fools. Don’t they know thatBrown Sugarbelongs to two people? D’Angelo and Kikiola Banjo.’

He gingerly places the record on the player, and then, almost tenderly, lifts the tonearm before gently lowering it back down. I know the song immediately. I get up and walk into my open-plan kitchen and pour us two glasses of water as ‘Send It On’ flows through the room, mingling with the sunlight, softening and sweetening the air scented with my unlit tuberose candle and him. It’s intoxicating. I’ve forgotten the context of this. Forgotten that there are people downstairs. Forgotten that we are who we are now. Malakai meets me in the kitchen, leaning against my cabinet, opposite where I’m stood after I pass him his glass. The look on his face picks up my pulse like he did the tonearm, seeking, warm and honeyed and reaching. I want to be on him. If he touches me I know exactly what song my body will sing. Something desperate, something hungry, a rabid sort of jazz.

He looks into his glass of water before meeting my gaze again. ‘You happy, Scotch?’