Page 30 of Siren

A pause. Then—“All we have to do is be honest.”

My panties were wet with his words.

Not just the sound of them, but the way he looked at me when he said them—like I was the melody he couldn’t stop working on.

From the far corner, the quartet played on—soft horn curling into the night like heat. We held each other’s gaze, caught between restraint and something far more dangerous.

And then, he smiled. A slow, knowing thing that made me ache.

Midway through the night, the quartet shifted.

One of my earlier tracks—stripped down, slowed to a hush—poured into the air like silk. Someone must’ve requested it.

A few heads turned. A woman in a green dress called out, “Sienna, you got a mic in you tonight?”

I was already rising. “Don’t I always?”

Soft laughter. Applause. A little hush.

I walked to the mic like I’d been born holding it.

The first line came low and breathy, just enough to catch the edge of the air.

By the second verse, I was in it—eyes closed, chest cracked open, emotion spilling like wine across velvet.

When I opened them again, he was watching me. Hands tucked in his pockets. Jaw tight. Eyes heavy like he was carrying something he couldn’t name. So I sang deeper. I sang out to him.

Let the ache burn through every word until it wasn’t just a performance—it was confession. And then… he moved.

Not to take the mic. Not to make a scene. He stepped beside me. Let the band curve around his presence, smooth and seamless. And then he spoke, his voice low but certain…

“She got a voice that don’t just sing—it remembers. Like it’s been here before. Like maybe I knew her back when I was whole…

Before the cameras. Before the pose. And now all I wanna do is match her tone.”

The rooftop held its breath.

So did I.

We stood there—just breath and tension and something bigger than either of us. And in that moment, I felt myself slipping.

Not falling.Slipping.Because falling feels like choice.

This—this felt like fate.

ELEVEN

The night followed me. In the weight of my suit. The press of her palm on my chest when we posed for the cameras. The scent of her—vanilla and heat—still lingering in the folds of my jacket.

The car ride back was low-lit and quiet. Dre had jazz playing, somethingslow and breathy, like the soundtrack of a memory you hadn’t made yet.

Sienna sat beside me, body turned slightly toward the window, eyes shadowed with thought.

But I could feel her.

Same way you feel the pull of gravity without thinking about it. She was right there. And every brush of her knee against mine was a reminder of what I couldn’t touch. Not yet.

I was trying not to want. Trying to play the part. But she moaned into that mic tonight like she meant it, and I haven’t caught my breath since.

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