Page 25 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY-TWO

I didn’t know what time it was.

Only that the light pouring into Taraj’s kitchen was soft and gold, like the kind of warmth that made you think time was slower than it really was.

His T-shirt hung off my frame, brushing the tops of my thighs. The hem swayed as I moved barefoot across the floor, flipping French toast in a hot pan that hissed and crackled.

It was one of three things I knew how to cook without burning, but that morning, it felt symbolic.

Like I needed to carve out something warm and soft between us before the world barged in again.

Because it would.

And soon.

The night before still lingered on my skin. That kiss. That silence. The weight in his voice when he admitted how all this made him feel—how I’d moved like I was the only one trying to protect something precious.

And I had been. But not just me.

I hadn't stopped to think what this all might’ve looked like from his side of the glass.

How he’d been asked to perform, to fall in line, to be available for the vision—without ever being invited to help shape it.

I’d lived that. Knew how it stole pieces of you, how easily your name could become an accessory in someone else's storyline.

And still… I’d done it to him.

Unintentionally. But harm doesn't ask for permission.

I turned the bread again, my throat tightening as the edges browned. The scent of cinnamon filled the space—sweet and heady, familiar. It wrapped around the quiet like a balm.

This wasn’t about fixing everything.

But maybe it could be a beginning. A soft one.

Behind me, I felt the shift in the air before I heard his steps.

Then warmth.

His hand sliding around my waist. His chest, bare and hot, pressing to my back.

“I like seeing you here,” Taraj murmured against my ear, voice still thick with sleep .

I smiled without turning. “Even if I used too much cinnamon?”

“You could’ve set the pan on fire,” he said, kissing below my jaw, “and I’d still wake up hard.”

I laughed, breath catching when his fingers dipped under the hem of the shirt. When they curved over the soft of my thigh like he already knew the way.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch me like that when I’m already weak.”

He kissed my shoulder. “Thought you liked when I made you weak.”

“I do.” My body betrayed me, leaning back into him. “But I’m tryna finish breakfast.”

He moved slower then—hands still trailing higher, mouth grazing my neck.

“Let it burn.”

Then he turned me.

What followed was the kind of soft chaos only we knew how to make—a kiss that unspooled into something deeper, hungrier. Me on the counter. Him inside me. No camera. No beat. Just us. Raw. Full. Mine.

The French toast survived. Barely.

I plated it anyway, drowning his in syrup just to be petty.

Taraj didn’t mind.

He sat across from me in only sweats, shirtless, brown skin glowing in the sun. One of my hair ties was looped around his wrist, taming his twists. His chain caught the morning light, and for a moment, everything felt right-sized again. Just us and this quiet.

“You good?” he asked, stealing a piece from my plate, licking syrup from his thumb.

I nodded, then paused. Tilted my head.

“What are we doing? ”

He leaned back in his chair, something thoughtful passing through his eyes.

“Eating breakfast,” he teased.

“Raj.”

His smirk faded, just a little. “We’re figuring it out.”

“That’s what this is?”

“It is for me,” he said, simple and true.

I let that settle. Let myself believe it.

“Me too,” I said.

Five minutes later, a knock shattered the peace.

Three raps. Clean. No hesitation.

Taraj stood, pulling on a shirt as he crossed to the door. He cracked it open, brow furrowing as two men came into view—one in a black windbreaker with the label’s logo, the other in a tailored suit and mirrored sunglasses, an earpiece coiled at his jaw.

“Corporate security,” the first said, holding up his badge.

Taraj didn’t move. “For what?”

“There was a crowd outside your building this morning,” the second one said. “Your location’s made it to a few fan accounts. The label doesn’t want things to escalate.”

I stilled, coffee halfway to my lips.

“It’s not just the music,” the suited man added. “It’s the energy. You two are drawing eyes. They want us with you for a few days. Just in case.”

Raj didn’t answer. He just shut the door—calm, controlled—and locked it.

I stood, setting my mug down.

A familiar flutter stirred in my chest.

Not fear. Not entirely.

It was adrenaline. That rush of knowing you’re the moment. That the city is buzzing because of you . I’d felt it before—on red carpets, on tour stops, during pop-ups that turned into stampedes.

But this was different .

This wasn’t a controlled rollout. It wasn’t curated.

This was real attention—spontaneous, unpredictable, and somehow more intimate. Because it wasn’t just me they were watching.

It was us .

And as thrilling as that was, it made my skin feel thin. Like every gesture, every breath, might be read a thousand different ways before nightfall.

Taraj turned to face me.

“It’s starting,” I said softly.

His gaze held mine. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“You still want it?”

My pulse ticked up. I thought of the studio. His kiss. My voice threading through his music like a confession. The kind of art we made when no one was watching.

And I knew, with all the noise rising outside, that was still the purest thing we had.

“I want it to be real,” I said.

His jaw flexed, then eased.

“Then let’s make it that.”