Page 82 of Siren

That’s when the door opened.

And in walked Amaya, all braids and bare shoulders, laughing at something Amir said just behind her. They moved like one breath fed the other. Like whatever she was about to say, he already knew.

“Don’t kill me,” Amaya said, holding up her phone. “But I had to show y’all the mockup.”

She walked right up to me, screen out. The digital image pulsed with energy—bold lines, warm tones, brushstrokes that felt like heartbeat and honey.

“They wanted something that felt like love in motion,” she said, eyes bright. “This is what came out.”

“It’s stunning,” I said, meaning it. “It feels like you.”

“Us,” Amir corrected softly, walking up behind her, arms circling her waist like he needed to touch her to stay grounded.

Amaya leaned into him, smiling as his lips brushed her shoulder. “Y’all working on something?” she asked, eyeing the board, the open session still glowing on the screen.

Taraj sat up straighter. “Just tightening some things.”

Amir cleared his throat. “Yeah, just...you know. Studio stuff.”

“Mmhmm.” She turned her gaze toward me, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “You’re lying. I can smell it.”

“Trust me,” I said, mouth curving. “You’ll like what you hear.”

She eyed us both, then shrugged, turning in Amir’s arms to face him fully. “You want to grab dinner after this?”

He nodded, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Anything for my muse.”

She laughed. “You better be glad I’m cute.”

“And yours,” he said, catching her mouth with his in a kiss that lingered just long enough to remind me why this song mattered.

Why it deserved to be perfect. Why we were pouring every ache and joy into every note.

Later that night,the suite was low-lit and warm, the television flickering with the soft hues ofMahoganyon some cable station that still ran movies with commercial breaks. Diana Ross was framed in a gold gown, looking over her shoulder like the world was hers to hold or burn.

I sat curled into Taraj’s side on the velvet sofa, skin still dewy from the shower, hair wrapped up, a hotel robe tied loose around my waist. His arm rested along the back, fingers occasionally brushing my shoulder like he couldn’t help himself.

The popcorn we ordered sat between us, forgotten. Salt clung to my fingertips. His scent clung to my skin.

We were halfway through the second act when the knock came.

He stood to answer, still shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and opened the door with no urgency.

A young Black woman stood there, holding a tray like it was communion.

Her eyes widened. Froze. Then popped.

“Oh my God. Sienna and Taraj? My whole week has been made.”

Taraj smiled, clearly amused. “Appreciate you.”

She handed the tray over like it was an offering. “Here’s the popcorn you requested, Ms. Ray. Three kinds of salt. Extra butter. The kitchen said to tell you, whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”

“I’ll be sure to thank them,” I called out from the couch.

The attendant beamed and backed away slowly, whispering, “I’m telling everybody.”

When Taraj returned, he looked at me like I was made of glitter and smoke. “Your fans are serious.”

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