But I didn’t. Not yet, because wanting something first had once cost me everything.
And now… I could feel myself leaning. Again. Toward him. Toward us. Toward the possibility that maybe this time he wouldn’t let go.
That night, we pulled up in front of the gallery space my firm had partnered on, a feature exhibition for one of my favorite artists, Amaya Jamison-Barkley. I adjusted the hem of my deep wine silk gown, the fabric hugging my curves, the slit high enough to to tell all my secrets. Tariq moved to open my door, crisp in black, his eyes warm as they dragged over me.
“Unreal,” he murmured.
I stepped out slow, meeting his gaze with a half-smile. “Good. We could use a little fantasy tonight.”
His mouth curved, but he didn’t say a word. Just offered his arm, and I took it.
Inside, the gallery pulsed with soft jazz and quiet conversation. Amaya’s latest collection was a moody, sensual blaze of color and abstraction. She painted like she felt everything too hard. I loved that about her.
We weaved through clusters of guests, champagne flutes in hand, until I spotted her. Amaya, radiant in a copper satin dress,stood beside Amir—her husband and the man whose music productions could make anyone believe in longing.
“Sanaa,” Amaya greeted me, her voice velveted with warmth. “This is stunning.”
“Your work made it easy,” I said, pulling her into a quick embrace before turning to Tariq. “This is Tariq Hunt.”
Tariq extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Amir shook his hand with a calm smile. “Likewise. Beautiful night for beautiful things.”
We lingered in conversation for a moment, admiration exchanged in subtle glances and quiet affirmations. And then we moved on, Tariq’s hand pressing lightly at the small of my back.
He leaned close as we stopped before one of Amaya’s bolder canvases—a riot of crimson and ash gray, all movement and ache.
“You always knew you’d be here, didn’t you?” he asked.
I sipped from my glass. “I hoped. But there were times I wasn’t sure. Those early years…” I glanced at him. “I was barely scraping. I remember calling you once, trying to convince myself to stay in it.”
His eyes didn’t leave the canvas. “I remember that call. I also remember I told you it was only a matter of time before people would be coming to you to secure their art.”
That he remembered—that he’d carried that too—did something to me.
He watched me then. Openly.
“You glow in this room, Sanaa.”
“I belong in it.”
“Damn right you do.”
We moved through the night like that. Talking low. Fingers brushing. Sharing bites of food neither of us cared about. Existing inside a current only we seemed to notice.
By the time we left, I didn’t want distance.
I wanted him.
Back at his place, I felt whatever armor I had left, dissolving.
He kissed me in the hallway, hands sliding the silk down my arms. We undressed slow.
The shower steamed around us. We washed each other in unhurried passes. His hands lingered. Mine did too. Every touch said we were relearning something we’d once known by instinct.
It was gentler than before. But steadier. Like we weren’t trying to prove anything anymore.
Later, wrapped in towels, we curled on the couch. A movie played low. I couldn’t tell you what it was about.
