The Heat Between Decisions
The next morning arrived too quickly.
We didn’t even get a chance to sleep in our bedroom. After hosting and the late-night cleanup, Micah and I found an easy lounge chair and curled up for the night. My eyes drifted to see his face resting on my shoulder.
His expression softened, letting out light breaths. His arms were loosely around my waist, enough to reassure me. My gasp was sharp when adjusting. He anchored me, swift and firm. The right pressure on my waist and legs.
“Don’t move.” Micah yawned sleepily before rubbing his chin into my shoulder blade. “We deserve descent rest after all that.”
“Whatever you say, Polaroid,” I chuckled. “But if I don’t get ready for this meeting, I’ll never leave this house.”
“So don’t leave then,” He says casually, still held no objection of letting me go.
“Micah,” I sighed. “I can’t do that.”
His eyes fluttered open, cautiously fixed on my fleeting mood. He noticed the tone change. “Meu lar, I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.”
“I know. Water under the bridge,” I said, adjusting my legs to straddle him. His hands placing hold on my ass, tugging. My eyelashes fluttered. “Can you help me pick out something?”
He chuckled, occasionally caressing me. “I’m only agreeing because I want to be the reason you look amazing.”
I playfully pecked his nose and said, “Works for me.”
An hour and a half later, we’re sorting in my closet, meticulously filtering through color palettes for blouses, dress shirts, skirts, pants, and sneakers. Mic thinks this is just organization, but I knew different. There’s a magical shift in the room—standing between duality and self.
This closet isn’t really a closet. It’s my soft little secret between the bedroom and bath, the not-quite-a-doorway that most people pass without a second glance. I built it like a hidden pantry, not for cans and spices but for the pieces of myself I’d rather introduce slowly.
The light in here always hums warm, the kind that forgives shadows and makes colors bloom. My sneakers sit in clusters like they’re having quiet conversations—neon rebels beside suede neutrals, pairs with stories etched into their creases. Heels held heavier, more honest, like keepers of the nights I’ve had to walk through fire and look unburned.
My tops and fabrics sway gently as we tug colors back and forth. They hang like chapters of a theory I never wrote down—sage for clarity, burnt orange for grounding, soft cream for when my spirit needs quiet. Even the violets feel like old ancestry humming through silk.
Mic pulls a hanger, pauses, glances around like the room whispered something to him. Maybe it did. Everything in here carries a version of me. Even the jewelry tucked in the sliding drawer—copper stone glass, silver, gold—each piece a little charm I’ve built myself around.
“What about this one?” he asks, nudging the dresser against the wall as he leans back. I watch him reveal an older pattern we’d styled together, as we sift through a few options. One catches the light beside him—a soft lavender blouse that bares my shoulders, paired with flared denim and sky blue Converse. Platforms. Always platforms.
“That’s actually…. perfect,” I said, rewarding him with a kiss. He stiffened in response. We both looked down, as if the decision of what to do lied there. He attempted to step back, but I pulled him closer, rubbing my hand all over his shaft.
“Kiy, you probably should—”
Micah’s voice caught as I gathered my fingers near the bottom of his sack. Even through his briefs, I could feel the girth. I swear I thought his eyes rolled. But here we were, both of us, with the wall holding all our friction.
“I probably should…what?”
I entice him, my hand inside his briefs and holding him bare. I dropped to my knees and began kissing, licking, and sucking every inch of his lower body. My lips moved up and down slowly. My tongue trailing his dick slowly, guiding the rest to back of my throat.
“Oh my… shit… Kiy.” Micah stumbles, grabs my hair, and ripples into pure ecstasy. When he finally flew, my mouth held his milked lore as the rest of him slid out. “Let me see before you swallow.”
My eyes locked onto his before my mouth dropped. I gave him exactly what he desired—his release. Once he was elated, I swallowed every drop.
He pulled me by my chin before pinning me against the wall. My legs swung around his waist, and his member teased my opening, causing me to whimper and groan. His teeth grazed my neck before sucking a spot I detested he knew.
“You can’t begin to know…” he started to whisper in my ear. “….how sexy that was, but I’ll show you.”
When he sinks inside me, my head collapses on the wall, and my body caves in towards him.
“I’ll show you exactly how that mouth and pussy sings.”
Our bathroom opens like the inside of a seashell—soft, curved light everywhere, humming with that blue-white glow. The one where the ocean is breathing against the glass. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, so the horizon becomes the real wallpaper. Every wave feels close enough to cup in your hands.
The tiles stay cool beneath my feet, a pale stone that carries the memory of sand. When the sun rises, it breaks across the floor in long, honeyed stripes, warming the space like a whispered blessing. And when night falls, the moon scatters itself across the mirror until the whole room feels lunar, a private tide.
The soaking tub sits slightly raised, not for vanity but for communion—its shape smooth, almost river-worn, as if the ocean carved it over years of patience. Steam curls upward like soft smoke signals, sending tiny spirals toward the skylight. Even the faucets feel intentional: brushed metal, cold at first touch, warming instantly beneath the skin.
The scent is always a blend of eucalyptus and the elusive salt-thread that drifts in when the wind changes. It’s not a bathroom, really. It’s a quiet shoreline dressed in porcelain and light, a place where my body remembers itself without interruption.
He watches me lather myself, letting the soapy suds cool my back, ass, and gather in the tub. His fingers roam everywhere, touching every bend and curve of my body.
“God, you’re so beautiful.”
Micah nearly shook his head in disbelief as he skillfully rubbed the loofa all over my body, paying meticulous attention to every nook and cranny.
His lips caressed my skin like a silent prayer.
“I mean—how are you this fine and mine ? Letting you out the door will be torture.”
“Boy.” I chuckled, swatting him away. I was already rinsing off. “You’re going to have to.”
I brushed past his lean, sculpted body as water cascaded down his skin. Looking like a sea god.
He let the water run down his head before his curls shook side to side, fluffing out the humidity. That definitely stirred something within me. My eyes didn’t conceal my intentions; they were dangerously plotting.
We dressed slowly, me in a modern mermaid-on-the-shore beat, him in a cheetah-print collar and sage shorts. I adjusted his fabric, weaving in my own quiet touch. He lifted my snowflake necklace from our shared vanity, gently clasping around my neck. I swept my hair up, letting the small, familiar ritual settle between us.
“Have a great day, princesa,” he said, eyes catching ours in the mirror. “I don’t want to have to wring anyone’s neck this early.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I promise—they’ll behave. Too much is riding on this partnership. No one will even notice I was gone.”
He walked me to the door, our fingers brushing just long enough to make the world shrink around us. At the car, he dapped Phil, our driver, with a careful grin. “Take good care of my woman. So that means absolutely no speeding.”
“You got it, sir… ma’am,” Phil replied. I settled into the seat, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space, my heart still tugged toward the figure waving in the distance. Micah lingered a moment longer, then stepped back inside, leaving me with the warm pulse of him still in the air.
I dreamt of mornings moving differently with him. Without work being involved. Especially with his body language earlier, the steams in that bathroom wouldn’t have lifted.
I had a company to manage and a partnership to sign off on. Poetic Ink Co. was about to undergo its first merger, backed by another Black company on everyone’s sights.
Once this merger was finalized, I was leaving. I didn’t want to keep going down the corporate rabbit hole. Autumn felt like a much better suit for it. It was a rewarding experience building this magazine, and I cherished all the hard work.
Retiring early was a risk. But I was willing to pay it. I craved him. And longed for him deeply.
Not that it stopped me from my work. It was an earnest struggle. Something internal that no one else knew.
For now, however, I’m grateful.
This meeting, on the other hand, brewed a storm we couldn’t hear coming.
Mood: Tonight feels like the ache before a dawn that finally means something
I’m still drifting from the dream. They’ve been thick lately… memories that don’t stay politely in the past, but surge forward like they still have teeth. I’m learning not to flinch. Being this close to her softens the edges. Waking beside her steadies me. The old ache—the hollow one that used to open in my ribs—doesn’t hit with the same violence anymore.
Traveling used to be the worst. There were nights I’d jolt awake certain she was gone again—from the world entirely. Those were the nights the universe felt like a cruel loop. As if we’d never find each other, as if every life was another reenactment of the same tragedy.
Vienna still stains me. Her blood on the cobblestone. The crowd not lifting a hand. Me arriving too late, heart racing past reason, gathering her before she had warmth to give back. I remember the sound I made—raw, ripping. There’s no lesson in that memory. Only the vow I swore afterward.
But that was another life. Another version of us trapped in a cruel script.
This timeline feels different. When she breathes beside me, real and warm, with her small sleepy noises and that way she curls toward me without thinking. That alone feels like a miracle steady enough to build a future on.
For the first time in centuries, I think we have a shot at something gentle. A life that doesn’t end in smoke. A life that holds.
So here it is, plainly written so I can’t run from it later.
I’m all in. Whatever this timeline wants from us—whatever quiet miracles it’s willing to offer—I’m choosing them. I’m choosing her. I’m choosing a life that doesn’t end in smoke.
I let the pen fall onto the small kitchen end table, next to a mug of tea that had long given up on being warm.
The noise of the world—spotlights, shows, whatever people call “success”—it’s all fading behind me now.
The only thing I want these days is her.
Her sharp mind that slices through any room. That mouth that turns me into something unsteady and grateful. Kiy makes surrender feel like a privilege. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been willing to lose control with, and she seems to know it down to the bone.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the distance. I pushed away from the table, wandered past the den, and into the living room. That’s when I saw her blue lunch bag lounging in her favorite seat like it knew it was caught. I laughed under my breath, scooped it up, and answered the phone at the same time.
“Yo! You quick to run threes?” Zune’s voice crackled with heat. “There’s some dudes on the beach calling us newbies. I feel like teaching lessons.”
I flipped through some of the mail and noticed a check from National Geographic. I used Kiy’s engraved letter opener, shaking my head. I balanced the phone on my ear and said, “First month on the island, and you already want to fight the entire shoreline.”
“Cause no one playing us like punks. I don’t care how ohana they claim we gotta be. I’m hitting third gear today.”
After placing the check in my wallet, I eagerly searched for my hoop shoes. “Fifteen minutes, I’ll be there.”
“Fifteen? Boy, you live two steps from us.”
Shoes laced. Keys in hand. Lunch bag secured like evidence I couldn’t lose.
The drive took eight quiet minutes, the Poetic Ink Co. sign rising like a promise at the edge of town. It’s our chosen home base, tucked close to everything but humming with its own free air.
I pushed through the glass door, and Poetic Ink breathed over me the way it always did—like the place had lungs. The air shifted instantly, that mix of sandalwood, printer ink, and the faint sweetness of whatever Glen burned in her little ceramic bowl. It’s the same scent that clings to Kiy’s notebooks: warm ambition edged with artistry.
Light poured through the colored panels she picked herself—emerald, rose, amber—so the room glowed in layered hues. It never felt like a lobby to me; it felt like stepping through one of her dreams, the kind she builds with wood, ink, and memory.
The furniture was modern but soft. Polished walnut, deep velvet chairs that hug your weight, brushed gold accents that catch the sun and toss it back. Black creatives filled the space with quiet purpose—photographers comparing shots, poets editing lines under their breath, interns clutching clipboards like talismans.
Every wall held a mural by a local artist. Kiy paid each one of them fairly, fought to do it even when the budget groaned. Some murals rippled like ocean currents, others burned with fire tones, and a few glimmered like constellations she swears she didn’t choose for symbolism… though I know better. At certain angles, they almost moved.
“Mr. Darring! Here to see Ms. Kiy?”
She’s never allowed them to use her last name. Not as it is now. Which is fine—she won’t be carrying it forever.
“Yeah, I’ll head back. Thanks, Glen.”
She waved her tiny wave and picked up another call. I walked farther in, that familiar weight in my chest settling—pride, the quiet kind that feels earned. And with this new Black-owned sunscreen line she’s signing into existence, she’s kicking down barriers most people pretend aren’t there.
This place wasn’t just hers. It was her mind made into a space other people could breathe inside. A sanctuary for Black imagination, built brick-by-brick from sleepless nights, soft rage, and brilliance she pretends is normal.
Every time I stepped inside this place, felt like I was witnessing her legacy draft itself in real time.
Her voice tugged me softly. She blinked at me standing there, leaning on her handcrafted door like I belonged to the wood grain. She was breathtaking. Red hair wild in the best way, jeans hugging every curve, blouse threatening to make me forget why I came.
She was juggling an intern and her massive calendar, but she still crossed the room to kiss me before asking, “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Is your stomach?” I lifted the lunch bag like evidence in a trial. She gasped, grabbed it, and burst out laughing.
“I swear, if my head wasn’t attached—”
I caressed her check before kissing her hand. “That’s what you have me for, princesa.”
The intern slid away with a nervous little sprint. I shut the door behind her, twisting the lock, and the glass walls around us tinted green, humming to life like the room recognized my intentions.
“Can I get my reward?” I asked, watching mischief bloom across her face.
She set the lunch aside and glided toward me, hands tracing my chest, my shoulders, fingers skipping lightly at my collar. My groin reacted before I could manage a full breath. She noticed. She always notices.
“What kind of girlfriend would I be to deny your needs?” she whispered.
I dragged my tongue across my bottom lip, tasting the spark between us. “Say that again when I’ve got you bent over that perfectly organized work desk.”
I jogged up with two minutes to spare, sand still clinging to my ankles. Zune, Gabriel, and Hitch were posted near the free-throw line, talking mess the way only men with something to prove do. A cluster of locals lingered at the opposite end, sizing us up like prey or practice—hard to tell from this distance.
I dapped the guys up. “If I knew Gabe’s brother was in town, I wouldn’t have cut my morning short.” Hitch didn’t even bother hiding that pro-player grin—the kind that comes with rings and way too much confidence.
“You know we needed a fourth,” Zune said, dribbling between his legs like he was auditioning for a highlight reel. “And don’t act like you were booked and busy.”
I rolled my eyes, refusing to explain anything that had to do with tinted office windows and Kiy’s hands on me.
“Still getting flagged for a few days ago,” I said, and before he could say anything slick, I snatched the ball from him and popped it straight at his chest.
Zune caught it with a grunt. “Bet. First to eleven.”
One of the locals—a tall dude with a sleeve of tribal ink—stepped forward. “Make it to fifteen. We don’t do baby games out here.”
Hitch laughed, stretching his arms overhead, joints popping like gunfire. “Man, y’all talkin’ slick for people who didn’t know I’d show.”
“We know who you are,” another local said, squinting. “Doesn’t change the scoreboard.”
Gabe clapped his hands once, sharp. “Mic, you running point?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Let’s set the tone early.”
Zune nudged me. “You better. The island watching.”
I took my place at the top of the key. The ball came to my hands with that satisfying slap—weighty, familiar. The court was hot under my soles, ocean wind brushing sweat before it even formed. I dribbled once, twice, feeling the rhythm settle in.
Trash talk simmered between both sides like a low drumline.
And the game snapped alive.
The first possession went sloppy. Zune over-dribbled, tried to thread some wild pass to Hitch, and one of the tribal guys—the tall one with shoulders like a carved canoe—snatched it mid-air and windmilled straight to the rim.
Zune groaned. “Bet. That’s how y’all playing?”
The man just shrugged, backing up on defense. “Play harder.”
We tightened up. Hitch called for the ball, and I fed him in the post. He gave them two clean power dribbles before going up—only for another local, built like a cliff, to smack it against the backboard.
“Damn,” Gabe whispered behind me. “They blocking NBA resumes out here?”
“Shut up and run,” Hitch muttered, retrieving the ball like someone had stolen his last meal.
Next few minutes were a storm.
Locals talking just enough trash to test our tempers.
Every bucket we earned felt like lifting a boulder. Their defense wasn’t fancy—they just didn’t give up ground. Every screen was a collision. Every rebound was a small war.
A long rebound bounced toward the sideline, sand scattering. I dove first—barely snagged it before it rolled out. Heard Zune shouting for the ball. Heard Gabe yelling, “Hit Hitch! Hit Hitch!”
This was the moment where teams crack… or click.
I drove into the paint, two tribal guys collapsing on me. Their bodies were solid—heat and muscle and island-born grit—but I kept pushing. Right as one swung for the strip, I punched a no-look bounce pass behind me.
The orange rim rattled loud as hell.
We found a rhythm after that. Hitch started calling switches that actually stuck. Zune hit a corner three he had no business taking, then stared at the locals like he’d just invented basketball. Gabe played glue—set hard screens, boxed out like a dad at a cookout, did all the dirty work.
The locals didn’t break. They kept coming strong—one hit a deep jumper that made Hitch swear under his breath. Another spun around Gabe so fast it made Zune yell, “Bro, guard SOMETHING!”
Started reading the court like a language I remembered in my bones.
With the score at 13–13, next bucket worth game point, the whole court fell into a hush—waves slapping the shore like a countdown.
I caught the inbound, palming the ball as my heartbeat settled into a slow drum. One of the locals squared up in front of me, sweat shining down his temple.
“You got one move left,” he said.
I smiled. “Good thing it’s my favorite.”
I pulled back, rose up, and let the jumper fly—high arc, clean release, a small prayer whispered in muscle memory.
Hitch grabbed the back of my neck, shaking me. Zune slapped my chest like I owed him money. Gabe doubled over laughing.
The locals didn’t look mad.
“You boys got heart,” the tall one said, offering a fist bump. “Come back tomorrow.”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “We will.”
That’s the kind that tastes earned.
My chest was still drumming from the final shot, but the noise around me faded as if someone dialed the world down to a murmur. Zune and Gabe were talking trash, Hitch stretching his shoulders like he wasn’t secretly sore, the locals laughing as they grabbed their water jugs… and I just stood there, palms tingling.
A good game always leaves heat in the muscles.
This one left heat in the ribs.
A kind that felt… directional.
I wiped sweat from my forehead. My hand trembled a little, not from exhaustion but from whatever quiet storm had started during that last drive. Something in me had tightened, then loosened, then rearranged itself without asking permission.
Maybe it was the way the locals played—no theatrics, no shortcuts, just force and intention. Maybe it was how our squad snapped together at the edges, a puzzle we didn’t know we were building. Or maybe it was the moment before the final shot, where time folded around my decision, and the world waited to see if I’d show up for myself.
The truth hit with the slow certainty of tidewater:
I still loved rhythm under pressure.
I still loved earning the moment.
I still loved stepping through a door I wasn’t sure I deserved.
And that thought—light, unsettling, honest—flowed straight toward one person. The one who made me consider how much of my chest I was willing to open. The one whose absence sat in my pocket like a stone. The one I kept trying to pretend I was casual about, even when nothing in me was casual around them.
Kiy didn’t need to be here for my mind always circle back there.
All it took was victory and breath and a little truth rising in my blood.
Maybe the game wasn’t just a game today.
That I was still choosing.
Still capable of choosing.
And the door I kept hovering in front of?
I might finally be ready to walk through it.
The ocean breeze cooled my skin.
The court blurred into the usual hum of the island.
they were already miles past the shoreline.
The hourglass thinned into a slow, taunting drip. My foot tapped a jittery rhythm against the desk in Thinker Quadrennial Room. Artists had been coming in and out of the boardroom since sunrise, and it was nearly time to call it a day… until the worst headline of the year detonated across every Hawaii news feed.
Then New York picked it up.
This wasn’t good. And the only thing I could do would pull our support before the blast radius could touch us.
Sunrise Luxe Faces Immediate Lawsuit After Solafylate A Contamination Discovered in UV Base Formula.
I stared at the headline again. The words stung every time.
Solafylate A—safe by itself, but volatile when mixed with certain essential oils.
A reaction that produces a carcinogenic compound under heat.
My pen cap nearly snapped in my teeth.
“Girl, stop. You’re stressing me out,” Autumn said, setting a fresh cup of coffee next to me before I shredded the cap entirely.
“Stressed isn’t strong enough. Think nuclear expulsion.” My hands shook as I picked up the cup. Me and Micah had been texting nonstop about it.
Mic: Kiyanna? You ok? Need me there?
Me: I’m fine, M. Already gaming planning with Auttie. Keep you posted.
Mic: I could make some calls, Princess.
A beat passed and I bit my lip.
Me: I trust Autumn on this. She’ll surprise the both of us. You’ll see.
Mic: okay, baby. See you at home then.
Me: I might be there a little later.
Mic: Don’t matter. Just come back safe.
More bubbles formed, like he deleted and restarted.
Mic: An order should be arriving shortly.
Mic: Anything for royalty 👑.
Autumn raised her hands like she was trying to calm a charging bull. “Okay—Let’s take a beat. Deep breath. Here’s what we know. The contaminated batches were stopped before distribution. That’s huge,” She paused, flipping through various articles displaying on our projector.
“Second, the company put out immediate apologies and recalled every product. Their cleanup crew handled the R&D fallout fast. And now? They’re in full ‘from-scratch’ rework mode.”
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “True… but can we take a blow like that by supporting them? Autumn, you’re going to have to live with the fallout too.”
Autumn placed her manicured hands on the table, looking at the midday mess spread across the boardroom like debris. “I recommended Sunrise Luxe. And I stand by them.
“Our entire ethos is about truth. We don’t cancel people for mistakes—they’re a startup trying to build something real. We can show the world that companies can fail forward and still have a community behind them.”
There it was. Leadership.
“You’re going to make a great editor-in-chief,” I murmured. “Atta girl.”
She paused… then narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Was this a test?”
A laugh slipped from me. “Is it a test if you were going to follow your heart anyway?”
Autumn huffed and pulled me into a tight hug. “Thank you. This doesn’t change how I feel about them. They’ll overcome this.”
“Oh, I have no worries they will.”
When we pulled apart, my voice sharpened with purpose. “Alright. Then it’s decided.”
I turned to the wall of screens, crisis swirling across each one.
“Poetic Ink is standing with Sunrise Luxe.”
With a couple of sushi platters, POGs, and iced lilikoi juices later, we released our official press statement—online first, then laid out in hard-copy print. It defended Sunrise Luxe in clear, grounded language and wrapped the corporate wounds in more lawyer jargon than my brain could willingly hold.
Autumn, though… she gleamed over that layout. Sharp lines, bold pull quotes, a structure that bit without snarling. Exactly like her.
She was calling war on the moguls, and the spotlight would swing right back at us. But we could handle it. Now that the world knew, all that was left was the signing—just one day away. Then Sunrise Luxe would be folded into our lineage, and the story would shift.
This would be her legacy. I felt it settling around her shoulders like a crown she forgot she’d earned.
She’d been happier since leaving the mainland. Lighter. And she wasn’t shy about why. Zune had sent her flowers and her favorite pantry treats from Lauhala Larder—the bakery they always wandered into, the place where he’d asked her to move in.
“I miss coney dogs,” she blurted as we shut everything down for the night.
The click of lights, the lock turning—muscle memory at this point. Emergency press cycles always ended with us as the last ones standing.
“Coney dogs? From our college days?” I laughed. “I still can’t believe you stabbed E with a fork because he tried to steal your loaded fries.”
“Aye, he should’ve kept his hands to himself.”
“Auttie, he had a game the next day.”
“So? Consequences.” She shrugged, entirely unbothered.
I shook my head and waved to Phil as he tilted his hat and opened the car door. “You need a lift?”
“Nah.” Her smile stretched, almost smug. “That’s my man now.”
Zune’s island hot-rod rolled up just ahead of Phil, engine humming. He hopped out, scooped her up like she weighed nothing, and she giggled like she’d reverted to pure childhood joy.
“Alright, you two,” I chuckled as I made my exit. “Don’t celebrate too hard. You gotta be at work bright and early.”
“Ma’am, I know you not talking,” Autumn shot back, just before they pulled off down the street.
I slid into the backseat, Phil closing the door behind me, and breathed out.
Home wasn’t far, but it always felt like another world—the place where the chaos quieted, where everything made sense again.
The house hums before she even steps inside, like the walls recognize her aura and start preparing themselves. I hear the car door slam, and before she can fish out her keys, I pull the door open wide. Hawaiian tea blend in one hand. A relaxed lavender mask in the other.
We don’t speak. Not at first. I let her shed whatever the day clung to her. She breathes out, slow, and a small smile flickers across her face. She leans in, brushes a kiss against my cheek, and takes both offerings.
“Now this,” she murmurs, “is what I could get used to. Coming home to you.”
She settles onto the couch, stretching across it like she’s reclaiming territory. I pull her legs into my lap and work my thumbs into the tension hidden beneath her calm. She doesn’t bring up whatever battle is brewing with Poetic Ink. The silence says she doesn’t want to—not yet. So we let the quiet speak for us. The waves crash in the distance, steady and forgiving.
When her tea is gone and the mask has soaked her skin into a soft glow, I guide her to the bathroom.
“Bathroom’s already set up,” I tell her. “Lights low. Towels warm. I can read to you while you soak, or sit behind and just…exist with you.”
Her spine relaxes, vertebra by vertebra, the whole day melting off her like wax. The tension dissolves under nothing more than presence, warm and unguarded.
She pauses at the doorway. “I do want one thing.”
Before I can answer, she pins me gently against the doorframe. “Kiss me.”
So I do. I kiss her until we’re both breathless and fevered, until her lips are swollen and my hands can’t remember restraint. If I could kiss every worry out of her bloodstream, I would. She does that for me without trying.
When we finally ease apart, I touch her cheek with my thumb—a soft, slow question without words. Not Are you okay? but Are you home now?
Fog drips down the coastline like the sky is melting. The pier stretches out like the last thought of a weary traveler—thin, trembling, too close to the unknown. At the end of it stands a woman in red. Bare feet. Hands coated in liquid gold. Beautiful. Blind.
My feet root themselves to the pavement. I try to run, to call out, to scream her name—if I even know it—but she flickers. Always. Like a mirage gone sour. I can’t tell anymore if I’m chasing her, or if she’s the ghost pacing circles around me. This isn’t our frequency. Something’s wrong in the signal.
Then the pier cracks. Splits like a mirror punched by a star. Out of the fracture rises a city—brilliant, impossible—lights sparking like shards, cars roaring past with white tires burning halos on the street. Smoke and gunmetal cling to the air. And beneath it all… jazz. Always jazz. It coils around my ribs and drags me forward, threading me through mobs and dancers, dream-slick faces blurring at the edges.
The music leads me into a darkroom. One spotlight—thin as a blade—cuts through the haze. It rains down like a broken skyline.
A woman stands beneath it in icy blue. Diamonds drip from her like frozen tears thawing too late. I don’t look at her, not truly, not until she sings.
The moment she does, I know.
She was my song in every lifetime where fear tried to silence me.
Peggy’s voice came through my laptop like a cymbal crash.
“The pictures you captured in Barbados—mind exploded! How did you get that close to an endangered reptile?”
Dawn hadn’t even made up its mind yet. I wasn’t awake enough for praise, but I was awake enough to think about what I’d seen out there. I never take fieldwork for granted. Nature is the one place that doesn’t lie to me. If I’m quiet enough, it shows me exactly what I need to know.
I’d slipped out of bed like a thief. Kiy was curled in my spot, a small storm of auburn coils across the silk pillowcase. She always folds herself into that crescent-moon shape when she’s worn down, like she’s instinctively protecting her own light.
I stood there a moment, watching her breathe, wanting to stay. The bath and the reading knocked her into a peaceful depth I’d been trying to give her for days. I said a little thank you to whatever cosmic switchboard finally answered me.
At my desk, I stretched my bare feet against the cool floor, not trying to show my boredom.
“You mean the racer?” I asked Peggy. “I may have convinced a ranger to let me document for charity purposes.”
Half-truth. Most of my photography money did funnel into conservation. I never shot for a paycheck anyway. Music had bought me more stability than I’d ever asked for. The camera was just… refuge. A way to remind myself the world was worth saving.
“You’ve got a way with people,” Peggy said. “I tried getting access last time—nobody blinked.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Reason you called this early?”
She shuffled papers until a file marked CLASSIFIED flashed across my screen.
“What’s your calendar like for mid-July? There’s a dig that needs your skill set.”
My stomach tightened. June was already a mess—house closing, unpacking, leaving Kiy with interior decisions she should never have tackled alone. I didn’t want to be a nomad anymore. I wanted our home to start feeling like a home.
“Dr. Khatibi is leading a dig in Cairo. I know how long you’ve waited for a pyramid assignment.”
Egypt. Not a job—a calling. The first rhythm my spirit ever learned. But leaving Kiy now? Leaving her with Poetic Ink erupting into a global microphone war? I couldn’t stomach it.
“I don’t know, Peggy. I just got back. Things are… delicate. And we—uh—we just bought a place and—”
“Your wife can come,” she said casually.
Not a correction. Not a joke.
Just the universe tapping me on the shoulder with a velvet hammer.
“One day,” I murmured to myself. “Yeah.”
“It’s only a week,” Peggy continued. “Minimum three days if time’s tight.”
I scrubbed my hand down my face. “When do you need an answer?”
“Tomorrow night. Slots are going fast.”
But before I could spiral, a shadow drifted through the soft candle glow behind me. Kiy. Barely dressed. Barely real. Wearing nothing but a lace thong and my silk shirt hanging open like an invitation the gods themselves couldn’t refuse.
I waved her over and muted the camera. She crossed the room with that quiet, dangerous confidence. Straddled me. Kissed my neck. Took my sanity in both hands.
“Mic?” Peggy’s voice glitched from the laptop. “Signal issue?”
“I’m still here,” I managed. Kiy’s hand slipped beneath my waistband, and I lost all higher brain function. “Shit—uh, Peggy, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I hung up before she finished answering.
Kiy tilted her head, smirk wicked and slow.
“Sorry… did I distract you?”
“Distract doesn’t cover it, meu lar.” I dragged my hands along her hips, claiming every warm line. “You didn’t distract me. You set me on fire.”
She brushed her lips along my jaw, breath soft as temptation. “Well,” she whispered, “let’s see what we can do before the flame peaks.”
My fingers traced every exposed muscle of his. His biceps were my favorite. Allured and toned. Ink splattered off like tapestries of life he’s lived. Micah closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He surrendered completely to my touch, and I was eager to push him further into that state of submission.
“What was the call about?” I whispered into his ear as I nibbled the end.
He cleared his throat, and the lingering scent of his breath hit me. Minty. “It was a trip to Cairo. One I requested… oh shit.” My tongue slipped behind his ear, and he shuddered.
“When are you leaving?” I gripped my legs around him tightly, securing them on either side of his seat. My hands reached into his briefs, causing him to pull back slightly.
“I haven’t decided yet… I need you to keep doing that.” Micah grumbled. My hands stroking his elevated shaft, as he lost reality with my touch, moving up and down slowly, twirling at the tip. “Damn, Kiy. I—”
“Mmm-mm.” I released him, pushed onto his desk, my ass resting on his laptop. I gave him a show that made him stare vigorously, wiggling my thong lazily. When it dropped to my ankle, I twirled it twice.
His hand reached out first, and my heel rested on his bare chest. He kissed my ankle, drawing closer and closer, tucking my thong away.
It was difficult to resist touching him. No one had ever taken care of me the way Micah does, and I felt compelled to express my gratitude. I wanted to convey that his beautifully crafted body was the source of all the warmth I desired.
“Please, take me,” I implored him.
He looked so pleased. “Oh, I definitely was, my amour.” His fingers traced marks and lines etched in my skin…towards a destination we deeply shared. “But you telling me… is the sweetest thing to my ears.”
His desk chair effortlessly moved to my center. I spread my legs wider. His face drove me, and when his mouth met my infinite pathway, my arch was perfectly formed. I lifted my ass into his reach, and he gripped it in the air, plunging into the deepest renewal. A symphony of moans filled the room, and our shadows danced around, creating a masterpiece of interlude.
“I love… tasting gold,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my thighs, nipping at the pull of skin and teasing my heat. “I… god…damn… I love you.”
“I… Fuck!” As he struck my clitoris once more, I was overwhelmed by a wave of tense suppression. My thoughts vanished, and my body jolted into an uncontrollable state of desire. “I love you too. So much. Please… please… please.”
“Should I, my love?” Micah asked, with eyes that seemed to hold a hint of guilt. “Should I give you a chance to find some relief?”
Micah’s smirk undid me. His face plunged back into my pussy, his hands firmly gripping both legs, holding them steady. As his tongue loosened and tightened with each plunge, I gasped so hastily that moon trickles spilled before us. This was it—I was finally coming.
He continued the ride without stopping, pushing us to the brink of exhaustion. When I finally released, I was hit by the most powerful waves, causing me to lose consciousness and see stars on the ceiling. My head dropped back, and I braced myself with my elbows. We were both gasping for air.
“What a way to start the day,” he laughed, leaning in to kiss me. And we had a shared meal. “Can’t wait to hear what your greeting’s gonna be.”
“Why don’t you take me to our room and see?” I teased. Then he picked me up, laughing. I could feel the rumble in his chest.
“Whatever you wish. I’m all yours.”
I would be lying cold, frosted by the multitude of ripples we shared through slick, shuttering sheets. Micah’s body was my addiction, and I was an addictive howler. Like a surfer’s sweet spot waiting for a break, he rocked me perfectly.
“Have we considered our answer?” he asked, interrupting my heartbeat. His voice dropped rapidly, shaken by our collision.
“Answer?” I huffed, struggling to regain the motion he had left me with. He hovered momentarily, shifting his dick to propel forward through the charged waters. My legs lifted back onto his shoulders, and he used the depth to push further into my pussy. “Answer… to… what?”
A thrust. A moan. A stream. “Cairo. We need to…. Fuck!”
That last stoke almost ended both of us.
“You … wanna … can we—?” My voice caught. His pressure hit through my back door.
He grabs my face, looking at me intently as I slowly unravel every control. The intensity lasted for a few lucid strides until we both collapsed, heavily exhausted and wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Yes, we can go together,” he said, perfectly understanding my thoughts. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling my head onto his chest. Our hearts still pounded with the excitement of anticipation. “This will be our first mission.”
I had an idea about us traveling through Egypt. We could see the monumental structures and temples that were built by people who were like us. Walking around those places would make the timelines a bit more tangible. It’s important to understand the context behind our love, not to dwell on the past, but to honor those memories so that we can move forward. We both know that this trip will be more than just a vacation. It will be a journey to finally put our past hurts to rest.
I cuddled him, pulling my left thigh over his. His hand crossed over, rubbing against me, sending electric currents through me.
“I know…. I know. And with Poetic Ink, it’ll be a stretch but—“
He shifted, and I might have caught him off guard. “Are you sure, Kiy? I mean, I wouldn’t want to put you in a position where you feel like you have to choose.”
“Micah, since you entered my life, our merge hasn’t been made easy,” His head tilted down and I tapped his chest to explain further, “But we will be together for a full year during the summer solstice. Don’t you think we’re worth it?”
He sighed in relief. “How do you turn my world upside down like that?” He pulls my face towards his, and our breaths become tiny bubbles. “I could kiss you a million times over.”
“A million and one will suffice,” I smirked amidst our candlelit frenzy.
