Page 20 of Siren

I’d already promised myself I wouldn’t let this session throw me off.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t bracing for it.

The hallway smelled faintlyof pine cleaner and incense trying to cover the sent of buddha. Posters of platinum albums lined the walls like ghosts of legends past.

And then—he turned the corner. Same slow, deliberate gait. Hoodie hanging open. Chain low. Bracelet catching light as he tugged at his sleeve. Effortless in a way that made time shift around him. Like the air moved to accommodate his presence.

His eyes found mine like they already knew the path. Slow drag. No urgency. No apology. Just heat—raw and sure—sliding over my skin until I felt it everywhere. Across my collarbone. Down my spine. Between my thighs.

My breath hitched. Nipples tightened. Core clenched so fast it made me shift my stance.

I held my phone to my ear like armor. Like I wasn’t standing there feeling his gaze press into me, soft and firm at the same time. Like a palm between my thighs, testing my patience.

He didn’t smile. Just looked. And I looked back.

One beat. Two. Long enough for the air to charge between us. For the burn to register.

Then he rounded the opposite end of the hallway, disappearing like he hadn’t just taken my body with him.

But I was still there. Still pulsating. Still soaked in the moment.

Still aching for more. More of what, my mind couldn’t intellectualize. It was a vibe and a pulse my body seemed to be chasing without my permission.

Inside the studio, the air felt different.

Dim lights brushed every surface in amber, casting soft shadows that whispered possibility. The kind of space you could lay vocals… or bury secrets.

Amir rose from the couch with that signature ease, smile carved slow like he’d already read the undercurrent in the room.

“Sienna,” he said, voice smooth, hand outstretched. “Glad you made it.”

His grip was firm. Professional. But there was depth in his gaze—like he could hear the echo of something between me and Taraj before either of us spoke.

My manager had been singing Amir’s praises for months. Called him a sound sculptor. Said he could touch the core of a voice and make it confess truths it hadn’t even named. I’d heard what he did with Taraj. But it was the smaller projects that really grabbed me—those raw, hungry artists he shaped into something untamed and golden.

Quietly, I’d hoped that one day—after the press cycles died down and the label stopped puppeteering—I’d get to work with him on somethingreal. Just me and the music. Nothing performative. Nothing pretend.

Myles gave a nod from the booth. “Anything you need, I got you.”

I liked his energy instantly. Grounded. Clean. He didn’t need to fill silence with noise. Engineers like that? Rare as hell.

Amir tilted his head toward the couch where Taraj now sat—hoodie gone, skin golden under studio light, his forearm draped casually over his knee like he owned every beat in the room.

“Y’all already got acquainted,” Amir said, eyes dancing with that kind of knowing you couldn’t fake.

“Briefly,” I replied, keeping it neutral.

Taraj looked up. His gaze landed on me like pressure—steady and slow. “Good to see you again.”

The sound of his voice moved through me like bass through bone. Deep. Controlled. A seduction wrapped in restraint.

“Likewise,” I said, though my tone came out softer than I meant. Then I turned to the mic, hoping movement would ground me.

Focus, Sienna. You’re here for the music. Not his mouth. Not his voice. Not the way his hands would feel on your hips.

Amir looked between us. “So here’s what I’m thinking,” he said, settling onto the edge of the couch. “A stripped ballad. Heavy on emotion. Not too polished—just real. Raw edges. Let the track feel like longing.”

I nodded slowly. “You thinking layered vocals or minimal harmony?”

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