Page 6 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

I hesitated but only for a moment. His directness was thrilling, and not intrusive. “Still forming. But I want it to feel like mine. Not theirs. ”

He nodded, slow. Like he understood.

“I didn’t want this collab,” I said.

“Me neither.”

“But here we are.”

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice lower now, like it wasn’t just about this anymore, “fate dresses like strategy.”

I looked at him again, sharper. “You believe in fate?”

“I believe in timing. And this?” His eyes stayed steady. “Feels like both.”

He let the words sit. Didn’t try to follow them. Just let them be .

“You always this poetic?”

“Only when the room deserves it.”

My mouth parted slightly. I hated how that hit me.

“You always this hard to read?” he countered.

“Only when I’m deciding if I care.”

His mouth twitched. Not a grin. Just that quiet flicker that said he liked women who didn’t flinch.

The air between us thickened—not tense. Just aware . Like something deep inside my chest was leaning forward without permission.

“What are you looking for in all this?” I asked.

“To create something that don’t feel like a campaign.”

“And if it does?”

He looked over at the nearest painting. One with a woman floating, but barely.

“Then I’ll know I lost something I can’t afford to lose.”

“What’s that?”

“Myself.”

I stood with that. Because I’d almost lost mine, too.

We talked a little about the track—where it would begin, what might anchor it. But it felt secondary. The song had already started between us.

Eventually, he moved. Slow. Smooth. Rising like the moment didn’t need to end—but could shift into something else.

I stood too, and as I turned slightly, my hand brushed his. Skin to skin. A light, fleeting touch—nothing overt.

But my body betrayed me.

A rush of heat low in my belly. A pull at the center of me. My nipples tightened beneath my top like they were responding to something more primal than logic.

I didn’t show it.

But I felt it.

He opened the door. Held it with his body, not just his hand.

I stepped through, every nerve still tuned to the echo of his touch.

Outside, the sky was inked in deep navy now, the last streaks of daylight smothered behind the buildings. City lights flickered on, painting the sidewalk in gold and violet haze. A breeze cut through the street, quick and sudden, tugging at my coat as I cinched it tighter around my waist.

He stood beside me. Not touching. But close.

Our shadows stretched together beneath the streetlight, long and familiar, like maybe they’d already known each other longer than we had.

Then—he reached for my hand.

Lifted it gently. Held it for a beat.

And then, slowly, brought it to his lips. A soft kiss. Warm. Intentional. No performance.

“I had a good time,” he murmured. “Curated or not.”

My breath caught. Just for a second and that’s when it happened.

A soft click. Subtle. Unmistakable.

I turned just in time to catch a figure ducking behind a van—camera still swinging.

“Planted?” he asked, his voice calm.

“Probably. ”

He didn’t flinch. Just adjusted his hoodie like he’d been through worse.

“I hate that they do this,” I muttered. “Turn artists into actors. Love stories into ads.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

I looked at him.

And the way he looked back made me forget what I thought I knew.

“Let’s not pretend it’s not complicated,” I said.

“Complicated don’t scare me.”

We stood there a moment longer, wrapped in tension that wasn’t going anywhere fast. And then Dre stepped up.

He didn’t speak. Just opened the back door like always. Steady. Sharp. Watching the world like it owed me nothing and everything at once.

I turned to Taraj.

He didn’t move forward. Didn’t try to say anything else. Just lifted his chin once—simple, deliberate, like he respected the weight of what we’d both just stood inside.

I slid into the car.

And Dre closed the door behind me.

We pulled off slow.

I stayed quiet, eyes on the blur outside my window. The way the streetlights hit glass, how the buildings shifted from familiar to new in a single turn.

Then Dre spoke.

"You good?"

I didn’t look over. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

He waited a beat. “He alright.”

That made me glance his way .

“Taraj?” I asked.

Dre nodded. “Got that old-school energy. Quiet. Watchful. Doesn’t move too fast, and doesn’t say more than he means. I clocked that.”

I studied his reflection through the rearview mirror. “You think he’s real?”

“I think he’s been through something. Whatever it was, it ain’t performative. I’ve been in the people-watching business a long time. You can see it in the way he stands. Like he’s not performing, but he’s not hiding either. That’s rare.”

I let that sit. Because the truth was—I’d felt it, too. The way something inside me had stirred just being near him. Not butterflies. Not lust. Something older than both.

I hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t wanted that. But it had happened. And now it lived under my skin—low, quiet, and electric.

Still, I kept that to myself. Instead, I turned back toward the window.

The city moved like a slow song with no chorus. Just rhythm and breath.

"He’s not what I expected," I said eventually.

"Maybe you ain’t either," Dre replied.

I closed my eyes. Let the motion of the car rock me deeper into stillness. It didn’t matter. None of this extra stuff mattered.

This was about the art.

The music.

The campaign.

And giving the label what they wanted.

Whatever I’d felt back there—whatever part of me had reached toward him—it would have to wait. Or vanish.

Either way… It wouldn’t change the plan.