Page 6 of What the Leos Burned (BLP Signs of Love #6)
The Room Was Too Small for All This History
The jet cut through the clouds like it had somewhere more important to be.
Zay sat near the window in silence, hoodie over his head, eyes fixed on the night below.
Atlanta’s skyline flickered in the distance like gold teeth and ambition.
The tray beside him held a bottle of untouched water.
His phone buzzed with a message from Kam:
Kam:
Touch down. We in motion. Simone got your pass.
He didn’t reply. Just tucked the phone back into his pocket and leaned his head against the cold glass.
He’d already agreed to this. Already said yes to being “visible,” to shaking hands and acting like he didn’t hate this part of the industry.
From what he googled on the flight, the Culture Circuit was an annual flex, an invite-only creative arts gala where Black excellence dripped from every wall, and you couldn’t swing a drink without hitting an exec or influencer with a blue checkmark.
Music, fashion, literature, film, every art form was in the room.
It was the kind of event Zay used to clown from the sidelines.
Yet, here he was, landing solo in Jackson-Hartsfield International, dressed in quiet designer and an attitude he couldn’t shake.
Before he could even breathe the Georgia air when he stepped out the jet, he was whisked away to his hotel at the Doubletree. He spent the entire day sleeping in his one-bedroom suite, and before he knew it, room service was at the door with dinner.
He muttered under his breath “Finally” and dragged himself toward the door.
When he opened it, he was shocked to see it wasn’t a hotel tray. It was Simone, smiling bright, and Kam, who lounged behind her in a hoodie and sunglasses like the damn paparazzi was following him.
“Good evening, your majesty,” Simone said, holding up the hotel tray of food. “Met room service down the hall. Here is your catfish and spaghetti. Don’t know how you think those two dishes go together.”
Zay blinked. “Y’all couldn’t just let me eat in peace?”
Simone pushed past him and walked into his room. “You would’ve found a way to ghost us. You lucky I love your antisocial ass.”
Kam grinned. “We figured us being here will get you dressed faster than ten text messages.”
Zay groaned and rubbed his face. “I hate this already.”
“You’ll be fine,” Simone said, peeking around his hotel suite. “This is networking, not a funeral. Smile a little.”
“I will smile. When I’m back on a plane.”
He turned, shuffled to his suitcase, and pulled out an all-black fit like he was dressing for court.
The venue was massive. Modern floor-to-ceiling glass windows wrapped in vines and soft amber fairy lights.
It was the kind of place that made people lower their voices and raise their expectations.
Inside, the Culture Circuit buzzed with a curated cool: Black-owned champagne, mood lighting, bass-heavy ambient playlists, and a sea of beautiful people pretending they weren’t starstruck.
Kam stepped in front of Zay as they walked up to the VIP area entrance with energy and confidence in a tailored suit and a gold chain that caught every camera flash. Simone followed right behind, already mid-conversation with someone from Apple Music.
Kam turned and handed him a sleek black pass. “Try not to look like you hate being here. Network. Shake hands. Say words.”
They walked through the VIP entrance, and Simone caught up behind them. Her lipstick was perfect, and her voice smooth. “Smile when people say they love your old work. It’s cute when you pretend you’re not a legend.”
Zay sneered just enough to keep the peace.
They drifted through the venue together and only paused for drinks and small talk with executives, influencers, and other artists.
Kam did most of the lifting, and Simone floated between tables like she owned the floor.
Eventually, Zay found himself close to the walls, taking in the artwork, the murmurs, the polished chaos.
He was mid-sip of his drink when a man with a deep brown blazer and locs tied back approached him with purpose.
“You’re Westside Zay, right?” he asked.
Zay nodded. “Who’s askin’?”
“Malcolm Waters. I’m a producer working on a new film. Been wantin’ to connect.”
Zay gave a lazy nod. “Is that right? What kinda film?”
“Adaptation. Book-to-screen. Real layered shit. Author’s got a strong voice. Whole thing’s set in Detroit, actually.”
That pulled Zay’s attention a little more. “Yeah?”
Malcolm took a sip of his drink and leaned in just enough to drop the pitch of his voice.
“It’s a teenage love story about grief, artistry, and healing. A lot of emotional weight, but it’s honest.”
Zay nodded slowly. He lost him right at the teenage love story part. “Cool.”
“You might like it. I know you don’t do the typical soundtrack stuff, but this one’s special.”
Zay gave a noncommittal shrug. He figured he could entertain the guy a few moments longer. “What’s it called?”
“ When the Rain Stops. ”
The title didn’t ring a bell, but then again, Zay hardly read anything since high school. His brow pulled slightly. “Who wrote it?”
“An author that goes by Love T. She’s also a Detroit native. Full name’s Love Tate, I believe.”
Still nothing.
Zay blinked. “Never heard of her.”
Malcolm raised a brow. “You don’t read much, huh?”
“I read contracts,” Zay muttered, “not novels.”
Malcolm laughed. “You might want to make an exception for this one. Her book has been flying off the shelves, very popular. We think this could be the next big thing. I could introduce you two.”
Zay shifted and half-glanced around the room, mostly out of obligation. “She here?”
Malcolm scanned the crowd. “Yeah. Right there by the photography exhibit. That’s her—black dress, curls. Her assistant’s with her.”
Zay followed his gaze lazily. Then his eyes landed on her, and every muscle in his body froze.
It didn’t hit right away, not until she turned slightly, and the light caught her face. Not until she laughed with that hand gesture he’d seen a hundred times in her bedroom when she was nervous or unsure. Not until memory filled in the gaps that time tried to erase.
That wasn’t Love T.
That wasPrincess. His Princess.
His stomach dropped. He couldn’t hear Malcolm anymore.
His ears rang with the silence that only came when something from your past slammed into your present without warning. Princess—or Love?—was standing just a few feet away, polished and poised, a grown woman now. Her presence hit him like no time had passed at all.
She hadn’t seen him yet, and for a second, he considered walking away. Turning around and pretending none of this had happened.
But he couldn’t. Something magnetic kept him from retreating.
He followed Malcolm, and his feet glided on instinct. His face was blank, even though his chest tightened.
Malcolm gently tapped her on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Tate,” he said with his usual warm charm. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
She turned, mid-conversation with her assistant, and the second she laid eyes on Zay, the breath in her throat stopped cold.
She blinked once, then again. Her lashes fluttered like her body was trying to catch up to her heart.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Her gaze scanned his face. He was slightly older, fuller, with faint lines near his eyes and a faint scar above his brow.
His locs were longer now, pulled back. The way he looked at her, with that unreadable expression that always made her heart flutter hadn’t changed.
Still intense and quiet. It still read her like a song he never stopped playing.
“Zay Woods,” Malcolm said, unaware of the current between them. “This is Love Tate. She wrote When the Rain Stops .”
Love smiled automatically. Her professional instinct kicked in despite how fast her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.
Zay extended the gesture.
“Pleasure,” he said. “Congratson the book.”
Their hands lingered for a second too long. Her skin was still soft. Warmer than he remembered. Or maybe he was just colder now.
“Kam!” Malcolm called as Zay’s manager walked over, already mid-laugh. Simone’s stilettos clicked sharp against the floor as she trailed behind him.
“Mrs. Love Tate,” Kam said, offering his hand. “We’ve been hearing nothing but good things. That book is making noise.”
“Thank you,” Love said, her voice steady but quiet.
Tara chimed in with something about distribution channels and publishing partners, and Malcolm picked the conversation right back up. Simone nodded along, offering praise and discussing score composition.
Neither Zay nor Love heard a damn thing.
She tried to focus, nod when appropriate, smile where expected, but her eyes kept slipping toward him. She caught the profile of his face, the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek like he’d always had when he was deep in thought.
He glanced at her whenever she looked away. He’d memorized the slope of her jaw and recalled the softness that still lived behind her eyes. She smelled the same, like something floral and warm. A smell that always reminded him of summer windows and late-night secrets.
They hadn’t spoken in fifteen years, and yet, every inch of air between them felt thick with unfinished sentences and buried confessions.
Someone made a joke, and the group laughed.
Love did too, though her eyes never left the floor. She folded her arms to keep her hands from shaking.
He looked down at her left hand, the same one he used to hold when she’d fall asleep mid-conversation. He noticed there was no ring present. He chewed on the inside of his cheek again.
“Zay,” Kam said, elbowing him lightly. “You good?”
He blinked and shook his head a little and whispered back. “Yeah. Just takin’ it all in.”
Simone leaned in toward Love. “We’re huge fans of your work. I know Zay doesn’t read, but I think even he might make an exception for this one.”
Love smiled. This time, it was apparent she was nervous. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m used to it,” Zay said softly. He locked eyes with her this time. They both smiled. Behind those expressions, neither one of them was here. They were both back in Detroit, in her bedroom. In the silence between two pinky-linked promises.
In the kind of love that didn’t die, it just waited.