He paused, looking at me for a beat longer than necessary, his eyes taking me in.
“Goodnight, J.”
“Goodnight,” I mumbled, watching as he disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Ciarán was dangerous. Not in the way Oak had been—reckless, possessive, and volatile.
No, Ciarán was dangerous because he was deliberate.
He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to pull me in without making it feel forced.
He was patient with me, easy, and, most importantly, he saw me.
Saw how I needed the patience he offered.
Saw how I needed to rebuild what I’d lost—and was actively helping me do that.
He wanted me happy.
That scared me more than anything.
Click.
The soft static crackle of the vinyl gave way to silence.
LaVern’s voice was gone.
And I was alone again—with nothing but my pulse, and everything I wasn’t ready to admit.
twelve-Ciarán
The club was packed; Miami’s finest had turned out to see me in droves, like they always did. There were women twerking, dudes flossing. I’d been in spaces like this a thousand times, but tonight felt different. Probably because Jordin was here, sitting at my VIP table, sipping on her drink, waiting for me. And still, she stood out more than any other woman in the room in her simple bandage dress, her natural hair hanging down her back. She’d wet it and smoothed some oil through it before we left. She didn’t have on a stitch of makeup, but she was still gorgeous.
I leaned into the mic ; the crowd was hyped as fuck from the set I just finished. My DJ was cueing up the next song.
“I got someone special in the building tonight,” I said. “Songwriter extraordinaire, Miss Jordin Black.”
Jordin’s head snapped up, her wide eyes locking onto mine from across the room. She shook her head slightly, mouthing a hard "don’t do it," but I wasn’t about to let her hide. She wanted more work with bigger artist. This was the way she’d get it.
“She 's gonna kill a nigga later, but y’all give her a warm welcome,” I added, waving for her to join me on the stage. The crowd cheered, phones going up.
Jordin groaned visibly, setting her drink down and throwing me a mean mug. I grinned at her, daring her to say no to all these eyes.
After a beat, she stood, her steps slow and reluctant as she made her way to the stage. She was tipsy, swaying just a little. The crowd parted for her. I could see the men watching her. She didn’t realize how magnetic she could be.
She took the mic from me, rolling her eyes as I whispered, “You’ll thank me later.”
The DJ dropped the beat for “Next Lifetime” by Erykah Badu. This song reminded me of us, but I just wasn’t waiting for a next lifetime. I didn’t have it in me to wait. Jordin was right here, in my space, in my life, and every second I spent next to her made it harder to imagine her being anywhere else.
When she sang the first line, her voice soft, like silk sliding over bare skin, the energy in the club shifted.
I didn’t even have it in me to join her. I just watched her. The way her lips brushed the mic, the little sway of her hips, the way her fingers tapped against her thick thigh to the beat—it wasn’t just her voice; it was her. And for a second, watching her own that stage, I saw a future I know I wasn’t allowed to want. And it scared the shit out of me. Because I wanted it and her.
Her eyes flicked to mine, grabbing hold of my own, and I swore my heart skipped a beat.
When I finally picked up my mic to join her on the hook, I kept my voice low, letting it wrap around hers like a thread pulling us together. This was the most intimate moment I’d shared with anyone, and it was happening in front of a crowd full of strangers.
When the song ended, the crowd went crazy. I leaned into her, whispering, “You. Are. Everything, baby. You know that, right?”
