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LENNOX

“ I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” I said, glancing over at Sherelle as she weaved her car through the bustling downtown streets.

I smoothed the hem of my blazer—a fitted navy number that I changed into after a quick shower following a long day at work.

“I should be at home reviewing the quarterly projections for tomorrow’s meeting, not. . . whatever this is.”

“Lennox, for the love of God, relax,” Sherelle said with a laugh, tossing me a quick side-eye. “You’re thirty-four, not eighty-four. The world isn’t going to end if you miss one night of crunching numbers.”

I sighed and slouched back in my seat, though “slouching” for me meant tilting a few degrees off my usual perfect posture. “You say that now, but if I don’t have the answers ready for questions tomorrow, the world as I know it will end.”

Sherelle rolled her eyes. “Girl, you’re a VP. You’ve been at Crow & Carrington for, what, ten years? You could do that presentation in your sleep.”

“That’s exactly why I have to stay sharp,” I countered. “Because I’ve worked my ass off to get here. You know I’m the youngest VP in the firm’s history? Do you know how many late nights and sacrificed weekends it took to?—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Believe me, I’ve heard it all before,” Sherelle said, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. “You’ve done nothing but talk about work for years. Tonight is about unwinding, having fun, and maybe even meeting someone who’ll make you forget about spreadsheets for five minutes.”

I snorted. “Meeting someone? Please. The last thing I need is another man trying to ‘fix’ me because I’m too ambitious or ‘soften’ me because I’m too independent. No, thank you.”

Sherelle just laughed as she pulled into a parking space outside a small building with the words The Velvet Note glowing in soft golden letters above the entrance. The hum of jazz music spilled out as soon as she opened her car door.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the entrance.

The lounge was warm and inviting, with low lighting that cast everything in a soft amber glow.

The scent of aged bourbon and something faintly sweet lingered in the air.

Tables were scattered throughout the room, each one illuminated by a single flickering candle.

On one side of the space, a small stage was set up, complete with a vintage microphone and a stool.

“This is cute,” I admitted reluctantly as Sherelle led us to a table near the back.

“See? Told you,” she said, flashing a triumphant grin.

A waitress appeared to take our drink orders—red wine for me, something fruity for Sherelle—and I settled into my chair, feeling slightly more at ease but still itching to check my email.

“Just breathe, Lenny,” Sherelle said, as if reading my mind. “The world won’t fall apart while you’re here.”

I nodded but said nothing, my eyes wandering to the stage where a tall, muscular chocolate man adjusted the mic stand.

He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that were dusted with tattoos.

His hair was cropped close, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that framed a strikingly handsome face. Well damn. . .

“Good evening, everyone,” he said, his deep voice commanding the room’s attention. “Welcome to The Velvet Note’s first open mic night. I’m Omir, the owner and also your host for the night. And, uh, I’m thrilled to have y’all here.”

The room erupted in applause, and I found myself lightly clapping along, though I couldn’t take my eyes off him. There was something about his presence—calm, confident, and just a little bit magnetic—that made it impossible to look away.

“This is an open mic night, so if you’ve got a poem, a story, or even just a few words you want to share, don’t be shy,” he continued.

“The stage is yours.” He smiled then, and I swear it was like the whole room shifted slightly, leaning into him.

“Now, I’ll kick things off with a little something of my own,” Omir said, taking the mic in one hand and leaning casually against the stool.

And then he began to speak. His voice was a melody all its own—smooth and rich, like the jazz music playing softly in the background. The words spilled from him like a stream of consciousness, raw and unfiltered.

“I don’t need much to survive,

Just the basics ? —

Food, water, shelter. . .

But without you,

I’m suffocating.

You’re the air I pull into my lungs,

The invisible essence that keeps me alive.

I can’t see you,

But I feel you,

Pressing against my chest,

Whispering life into my weary bones.

You don’t realize, do you?

How your love fills me.

How it moves through me,

Like oxygen to blood.

Without you,

I’m breathless,

Choking on the emptiness of what could have been.

There’s a stillness when you’re not here,

Like the world forgot to breathe.

I gasp for you in my solitude,

Reaching, clawing,

Like a drowning man fighting for just one more inhale.

You’re my atmosphere,

The steady rhythm of in and out,

Keeping me afloat in a sea of chaos.

And when you’re near,

It’s not just survival.

It’s life.

Deep, rich, intoxicating.

Your laughter is the wind in my sails,

Your voice the breeze on my face.

And your love?

It’s the storm,

Fierce and untamed,

Blowing away everything that doesn’t matter.

But I know,

Even air can’t be taken for granted.

One moment you’re here,

The next, I’m gasping,

Grasping at a memory of what kept me alive.

So I’ll hold on to you like my last breath,

Knowing that without you,

I’d fade.

Because you’re not just air.

You’re my air.

And no man can survive without that.”

I sat there, completely transfixed. I didn’t notice the wine glass in front of me or the growing applause around me when he finished. All I could feel was the way his words lingered in the air, like a tangible presence that wrapped around me and refused to let go.

“Earth to Lennox,” Sherelle said, snapping her fingers in front of my face.

“What?” I blinked, suddenly aware of my surroundings again.

“You were staring,” she said, grinning mischievously.

“I was not,” I said, sitting up straighter.

“Oh, you so were. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Before I could respond, Omir stepped down from the stage and began mingling with the crowd, moving from table to table with an easy charm. When he reached ours, I felt my pulse quicken.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, flashing a warm smile. All thirty-two pearly white and straight. A set of full lips blessed by the Lord himself.

“Hey, Omir,” Sherelle said casually. Of course, she already knew him. “This is my workaholic friend, Lennox. I had to drag her out tonight.”

“Nice to meet you, Lennox,” Omir said, his eyes locking onto mine.

“Likewise,” I managed to say, though my voice sounded quieter than usual.

“Smart friend,” he said, glancing at Sherelle. “We all need a break sometimes.” Omir smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down my spine. “Enjoy the night.”

As Omir moved on to the next table, Sherelle turned to me with a wide grin plastered across her face. “Girl, tell me you didn’t feel that.”

“Feel what?” I said, feigning ignorance as I reached for my glass of wine.

“Don’t play with me, Lenny. The way he looked at you?”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Okay, he’s handsome. He’s fine. I’ll give you that. But I don’t see what the big deal is. How do you even know him?”

Sherelle leaned back in her chair, swirling her drink lazily.

“Omir and I go way back. We grew up in the same neighborhood. He used to hustle until he turned his life around, but he was always into jazz music. I used to think it was weird, but whatever. When I heard he was opening this place, I knew it would be special.”

“Sounds like he’s got a lot going for himself,” I said, trying to sound disinterested, but my eyes betrayed me. They flickered toward Omir as he worked the room, moving with an effortless confidence that seemed to pull everyone in his orbit.

He laughed at something a woman at the next table said, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the soft jazz. His smile was infectious, his energy magnetic. I hated to admit it, but there was something about him that was. . . intriguing.

Sherelle didn’t miss a thing. “You’re staring again,” she teased.

“I am not staring,” I said, snapping my gaze back to her.

“Oh, please. I see you sneaking looks. And trust me, he notices too. Do you see the way he keeps glancing back at you?”

I scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Sherelle said, her grin widening. “Because he just looked over here again.”

I turned my head ever so slightly, pretending to adjust my bracelet, and sure enough, Omir’s eyes were on me.

My stomach did a little flip as our gazes locked.

His expression was calm but curious, like he was trying to figure me out.

Then he did something I wasn’t expecting—he lifted his hand, subtly motioning toward the bar with a tilt of his head.

“Oh my God,” Sherelle whispered, clutching my arm. “He wants you to go over there!”

I froze, my heart suddenly racing. “Are you sure he’s not just looking in this direction?”

“Lennox, stop overthinking and go. You don’t need a spreadsheet to figure this one out.”

I hesitated, glancing at my wine glass like it might somehow provide an excuse to stay seated. But deep down, I knew Sherelle was right. There was no logical reason for me to go, but something about the way he looked at me made it impossible to resist.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered under my breath, pushing back my chair.

“That’s my girl,” Sherelle said, giving me a playful shove.

As I made my way toward the bar, I became acutely aware of every step, every sound, every flutter of my pulse.

My thoughts raced. Why is he interested in me?

Did Sherelle set this up? What am I even going to say?

But then I remembered the way he’d looked at me—steady, deliberate, and just a little mischievous—and I felt a flicker of courage.

The bar was a little quieter than the rest of the lounge, tucked into a corner where the lighting was even dimmer. Omir was leaning against the counter, nursing a glass of something amber. He straightened as I approached, his smile easy and welcoming.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret between us.

“Hi,” I replied, suddenly feeling out of place in my business attire.

“You looked like you needed a reason to step away from the table,” he said, nodding toward Sherelle, who was pretending not to watch us while failing miserably.

I chuckled. “She just loves to play match maker, doesn’t she?”

“Relle is cool. We go way back to high school,” Omir said, his gaze warm and steady. “But I figured you might appreciate a quieter conversation.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “And what makes you think I want to talk to you?”

His smile widened, and there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Call it a hunch. Or maybe I’m just hoping I’m right.”

I couldn’t help but smile back, though I tried to suppress it. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Not confident,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Just curious.” The way he said it made my skin tingle, like he wasn’t just talking about this moment but something deeper.

“Well, Omir,” I said, my voice firmer now, “curiosity can be dangerous.”

“Only if you’re afraid of what you might find,” he replied, his tone soft but challenging.

I opened my mouth to respond but found myself momentarily speechless. There was something disarming about him, something that made me feel both on edge and completely at ease.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what does someone like you do for fun, Lennox?”

The question caught me off guard. “Someone like me?”

He gestured subtly to my blazer and the sharp, no-nonsense look I hadn’t bothered to shed. “Yeah. You’ve got this air about you—focused, driven, independent, and probably a little too hard on yourself. But I bet there’s more to you than that.”

I arched an eyebrow, unsure whether to be offended or impressed. “And you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“Not yet,” he said, his voice dropping just slightly. “But I’d like to.” Before I could respond, the bartender set a fresh glass of wine in front of me, and Omir gave him a nod of thanks. “On me,” he said.

I glanced down at the glass, then back up at him. “Thank you.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt like the control I always prided myself on was slipping, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to grab it back or let it go entirely.

As I took a sip of the wine, I felt the weight of his gaze, steady and unrelenting, and I knew—whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be simple.