Page 31 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY-EIGHT

T he mic caught the low glide of my breath before the first note even left my lips.

I heard it in my headphones. Felt it in my chest. The hush before something holy.

Taraj stood behind the glass, one hand on the console, the other pressed to his lips like the sound of me settled somewhere sacred. His eyes tracked every movement of my mouth, every vibration I let fall into the space between us.

We were building a song that didn’t belong to us. Not this time. This was for Amir and Amaya—for their love, their story, their spark. But still, as the melody swelled and my voice found the pocket he carved with those piano chords, it was us I felt.

Every harmony we’d never written. Every kiss that lingered too long. Every stretch of silence between us these past few weeks that still managed to pulse with feeling.

“Pull back on that bridge,” he said gently through the talkback. “Float on it like you’re still not sure if it’s a yes.”

I nodded once and stepped back to breathe. “You want hesitation?”

“I want surrender. But the kind that surprises even you.”

I smiled, slow and deep, because he knew exactly what that sounded like. Knew it because he’d pulled it out of me already, in more ways than music.

I closed my eyes and gave it again—just enough ache to make it real.

When I stepped out of the booth, the studio lights were low and warm, the kind that made everything feel personal. Taraj was already playing back the track, his head bobbing slightly to the beat, lips parted like he was tasting every note.

That’s when the door opened.

And in walked Amaya, all braids and bare shoulders, laughing at something Amir said just behind her. They moved like one breath fed the other. Like whatever she was about to say, he already knew.

“Don’t kill me,” Amaya said, holding up her phone. “But I had to show y’all the mockup.”

She walked right up to me, screen out. The digital image pulsed with energy—bold lines, warm tones, brushstrokes that felt like heartbeat and honey .

“They wanted something that felt like love in motion,” she said, eyes bright. “This is what came out.”

“It’s stunning,” I said, meaning it. “It feels like you.”

“Us,” Amir corrected softly, walking up behind her, arms circling her waist like he needed to touch her to stay grounded.

Amaya leaned into him, smiling as his lips brushed her shoulder. “Y’all working on something?” she asked, eyeing the board, the open session still glowing on the screen.

Taraj sat up straighter. “Just tightening some things.”

Amir cleared his throat. “Yeah, just...you know. Studio stuff.”

“Mmhmm.” She turned her gaze toward me, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “You’re lying. I can smell it.”

“Trust me,” I said, mouth curving. “You’ll like what you hear.”

She eyed us both, then shrugged, turning in Amir’s arms to face him fully. “You want to grab dinner after this?”

He nodded, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Anything for my muse.”

She laughed. “You better be glad I’m cute.”

“And yours,” he said, catching her mouth with his in a kiss that lingered just long enough to remind me why this song mattered.

Why it deserved to be perfect. Why we were pouring every ache and joy into every note.

Later that night, the suite was low-lit and warm, the television flickering with the soft hues of Mahogany on some cable station that still ran movies with commercial breaks. Diana Ross was framed in a gold gown, looking over her shoulder like the world was hers to hold or burn .

I sat curled into Taraj’s side on the velvet sofa, skin still dewy from the shower, hair wrapped up, a hotel robe tied loose around my waist. His arm rested along the back, fingers occasionally brushing my shoulder like he couldn’t help himself.

The popcorn we ordered sat between us, forgotten. Salt clung to my fingertips. His scent clung to my skin.

We were halfway through the second act when the knock came.

He stood to answer, still shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and opened the door with no urgency.

A young Black woman stood there, holding a tray like it was communion.

Her eyes widened. Froze. Then popped.

“Oh my God. Sienna and Taraj? My whole week has been made.”

Taraj smiled, clearly amused. “Appreciate you.”

She handed the tray over like it was an offering. “Here’s the popcorn you requested, Ms. Ray. Three kinds of salt. Extra butter. The kitchen said to tell you, whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”

“I’ll be sure to thank them,” I called out from the couch.

The attendant beamed and backed away slowly, whispering, “I’m telling everybody.”

When Taraj returned, he looked at me like I was made of glitter and smoke. “Your fans are serious.”

“She’s yours too now,” I teased, patting the seat beside me.

He sat down, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and kissed my shoulder. “I don’t mind being recognized if it’s next to you.”

We watched the rest of the film like that—half-focused, half-tangled up in each other. Taraj’s hand on my thigh. My fingers tucked in his. The sound of Diana Ross singing about dreams and sacrifice and beauty filled the room.

After the movie ended, the TV dipped into a string of trailers. Taraj muted it and turned to me, eyes heavy with something softer than lust, deeper than desire .

We didn’t speak. We just moved.

We kissed like there was nothing left to prove, only pleasure to give. He laid me back against the cushions, opened my robe like he was unwrapping something sacred. His body folded over mine and we made love slow, with full hands and full hearts, skin to skin and nowhere to hide.

Afterward, I lay still, his head resting on my stomach, our breaths tangled.

Then something stirred.

Not in my chest. But lower. In that place where melody blooms before you realize you’re humming. Low and unsure at first. Then fuller. Warmer. Something between a question and a promise.

Taraj shifted, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on my hip. “That something new?”

“Maybe,” I whispered.

He sat up slowly, reached for his phone, and hit record without asking.

I hummed again, letting it roll into the quiet, letting the seed of the song plant itself in the room.

I didn’t know the lyrics yet. Didn’t need to. But I knew what it was about. Him. And maybe us too.

What it meant to fall for someone who saw you past the polish. Who touched you like you were more than your voice. More than your image.

Pittsburgh wasn’t supposed to be permanent and it still wasn’t but I hadn’t left despite our collab being finished and the feeling of home reaching out to me.

But love…

Love had a way of rerouting things and I wasn’t just passing through anymore.

I’d stayed.

Because something real was here and he was sleeping in my arms.