Page 4 of A Virgo’s Muse (BLP Signs of Love #12)

Desire moved like her thoughts were louder than the music playing inside.

I stood across the street, leaning against the hood of my car, watching her through the glass windows of My Desires , the studio that bore her name.

And every time I said it in my head, My Desires , it hit different because it was starting to become my reality.

There was something about her. Desire Howard was the kind of woman men didn’t get twice. If they were lucky, they didn’t mess it up the first time.

She had on that same paint-stained apron I remembered from the night I touched her hands in clay.

Only this time, her chest was bare underneath it, except for a black sports bra clinging to her like a second skin.

She wore black spandex shorts, those thick thighs carrying her from canvas to canvas like she didn’t even realize she was making art just by walking.

Her hair was piled high in a top knot with a few curly strands clinging to her damp forehead.

Sweat slicked her caramel skin, catching in the soft dip of her collarbone.

Freckles and moles danced across her face, but I knew each one had its own story.

Her cheeks were smudged with white paint, which only made her look more like she belonged inside one of her own masterpieces.

She was barefoot, pacing like her mind wouldn’t let her rest, and I couldn’t blame her.

Some people walked around searching for purpose.

Others were purpose. Desire was the latter.

Her eyes were hazel but looked green depending on the light.

I remembered how they narrowed when she was focused, how they widened when I whispered something low in her ear, and how they darkened just before she pretended not to care.

I saw it—the tension, the wonder, the way her walls cracked like clay in my palms.

She was soft spoken, but her presence was loud. Intelligent, but not the kind that flaunted it. She knew the weight of silence. She was charismatic in the quietest, most hypnotizing way. Beautiful from head to toe, but that was the least remarkable thing about her.

She painted like she’d been to war. Some strokes were rough and desperate. Others, gentle and left unfinished. Like she didn’t believe she deserved peace but still reached for it anyway.

And me? I’d been watching her. Not in some creepy way. Not to study. Just… to make sure I didn’t ruin her. Because I knew what I was. I cleaned up the dirt people left behind, recovered what they lost, and eliminated what threatened them.

I operated in the shadows, where no one asked questions, where people like me didn’t get to hold on to things that shined too bright.

And Desire? She was a sunbeam in a locked room. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to open the door or just enjoy the warmth before it faded.

I got tired of watching her from across the street. Got tired of wondering if I could be man enough to stand in her light without breaking. So, I popped my trunk, lifted the sculpture from the back, and carried it across the street.

My boots echoed down the sidewalk. One thump after the next, like fate finally caught up. I reached the front door, ready to knock, but it was unlocked. Of course, it was. She never locked her doors. She was too trusting, too her. I stepped inside, and the chime above the door made her jump.

She turned just as I entered, startled, and dropped the jar of dirty paint water she’d been holding. It shattered, spreading mud-colored liquid across the floor. Her body stiffened.

“The hell, Onyx!” she snapped, eyes wide. “You just ghost me for weeks and pop up like… like this? Just because you came unannounced once doesn’t give you a free invitation to make it a routine.”

I said nothing at first. Just stood there with the sculpture in my hands, heart thudding louder than her music.

“You good?” I asked softly, stepping over the broken glass.

She crossed her arms. “I was.”

I looked around. Her studio was chaotic but alive, like a storm had passed and left behind blooming wildflowers.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.

“You didn’t scare me,” she shot back. “You just… disappeared.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. Barely, but I heard it. I stepped closer, holding the sculpture between us.

“I made something for you,” I murmured. “Thought you might want to see it.”

She eyed it warily, but her arms dropped.

Her gaze softened as I handed it to her, a sculpture of a woman carved with deliberate detail, pouring water from one hand into a small basin at her feet.

But the twist was the basin overflowed and circled back into her body.

She was pouring into herself while pouring into others.

Desire didn’t speak. She just stared at the piece like it unlocked something she didn’t know she needed.

Her fingers moved delicately over the sculpture’s curves, the arcs, the flow of it, the balance between giving and receiving.

I watched her chest rise and fall slowly, like the sculpture was pulling breath from her lungs.

I knew who Desire was before I laid eyes on her at the art gallery.

Her artwork was something I studied late nights and dissected.

I even watched some footage of her at different galleries.

She floated through rooms like she was the one hosting the event.

At the end of each video, they thanked her for going above and beyond and for her dedication.

For coming in early to help them set up or staying later to make sure everything was in order.

“I call it Reciprocity ,” I said, my voice low but firm. “Because that’s what you do. You pour into everyone around you, even when you’re running on empty. I wanted to show you what it looks like when the pouring starts with you.”

She blinked, swallowing hard. Her eyes lifted to mine, glassy and full of questions.

“Why would you make this?” she whispered.

I shrugged one shoulder. “Because I’ve been watching you. Listening, even when you weren’t speaking.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “That sounds… kind of stalker-ish, Onyx.”

There was a flicker of amusement in her voice, but I didn’t laugh. I stepped closer.

“Maybe,” I said, standing directly in front of her now. “But you’re not the kind of woman a man can forget. You stick.”

Desire’s gaze flicked to my lips then away.

“And what happens when I stick to the wrong man? What happens when I start leaning on someone and they move? What happens when I stop holding everyone up… and there’s no one left to hold me?”

That question… it cracked something in me. Because I’d heard that kind of ache before but never from someone so put together, so composed, so tired beneath it all. I stepped closer slowly until I was in her space.

“You don’t have to hold it all together, Desire. Not tonight.”

She tried to look away, but I reached up gently, brushing a streak of white paint from her cheek with my thumb. Her skin was soft and warm beneath the smudge. Her breath caught.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.

“I know enough.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her voice wavered between guarded and curious. “What do you think you know?”

I held up my fingers, ticking each one off.

“You hate mess, but you live in organized chaos. You pretend to be indifferent, but your eyes give you away every time. You’re private, but your paintings scream what your mouth won’t say.

You love hard, even if you won’t admit it.

And you haven’t had the chance to be soft in so long that you don’t even remember what it feels like. ”

She stood there frozen, lips slightly parted, like she couldn’t breathe for a second. I leaned in, not to kiss her, but just to be close. To let her feel me, my calm, my conviction, the way I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not here to make you weak,” I said against her temple. “I’m here to remind you that you’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to be held. You’re allowed to be poured into.”

Her hand drifted up slowly and hesitantly until her fingers lightly grazed the sculpture again.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

“So are you.”

She looked up at me sharply, like I’d said something outrageous. Like she wanted to reject it but couldn’t, not when her body was leaning toward mine the way it was.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered. “Whatever this is.”

“You don’t have to. Just let me show you.”

Her eyes stayed on mine a little longer than before. Then she pulled away, not in rejection, but like she needed air. I had gotten too close, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

She moved toward the corner and grabbed a towel to clean up the paint water. I bent down and grabbed a broom before she could. We cleaned side by side in silence until the mess was gone and the studio felt lighter.

When we were done, she stood, leaning against the table with her arms crossed. She was not defensive this time, just unsure.

“You came all the way here just to give me that?” she asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I came to give you something. The sculpture was just part of it.”

“And the rest?”

I stepped to her again, not touching her but close enough for her to feel how serious I was.

“The rest is me showing up. Not vanishing. Not being a ghost. Just being here… if you’ll let me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. She was trying to protect herself. I saw it. I felt it, but I wasn’t here to bulldoze her walls. I was here to knock, wait, and be let in when she was ready.

So, I nodded toward the sculpture then toward her heart.

“I see you, Desire,” I said softly. “And you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

And this time, when I turned to leave, she didn’t stop me. But she didn’t close the door behind me either. And something told me that was her way of saying… come back.