12.0 #3
Silence settled again, not uncomfortable, just heavy. She broke it first, brushing crumbs from her lap.
"You sound tired," she said.
"I am."
For a moment neither of us spoke. Just the city filling in for us, and the fact that even with all the years, all the walls, it still felt like we fit on this bench better than anywhere else.
I leaned back, dragging my gaze over her just long enough for her to notice. "So," I said, casual in a way that wasn't casual at all, "how's... Kevin? Keon? What's-his-name."
Her mouth broke into a laugh, shaking her head. "Kian."
"Right. Kian." I let the syllables drag, like it tasted wrong. "Is it serious? You and him?"
She shook her head before she even looked up. "No. Things aren't like that."
Something in my chest loosened—ridiculous, but real. I smiled, softer this time, letting it settle between us. "Good."
She rolled her eyes, but she didn't move away when my hand brushed against hers on the bench. Just a graze—small, unintentional if either of us wanted to pretend it was.
Her fingers twitched but didn't pull back.
"Amira..." I said, quieter now. Not a question, not yet. Just her name, weighted like a compliment.
She looked at me fully, her expression unreadable. "What are we doing, Brooks?"
The words landed without accusation, without softness either. Just a quiet, necessary cut through the noise.
I turned toward her then, resting my forearm on my knee. "Sitting in a park, catching up.," I said, trying to make it lighter than it was. But her eyes didn't let me get away with it.
Her question still hung there, heavy, and I knew she wasn't asking about the bench.
I raked a hand over my mouth, buying myself half a second, but there wasn't a spin that made sense. Not with her.
"I don't know," I admitted, the words tasting like something I hadn't said in years. "I just know I missed you. And I don't... I don't get to miss anyone else the way I miss you."
Her shoulders shifted, a small restless movement. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have," I said. "I'm not here with a plan, Amira. I'm not even here with the right to ask for anything. I just..." My voice dipped, thinner now. "I can't seem to stop finding my way back to you."
The corner of her mouth moved like she was going to speak, then she stopped. The city moved around us, kids on scooters, a dog tugging at a leash, the smell of roasted nuts drifting over from a cart. And there we were, still.
"You remember the last time we sat here?" she asked finally, voice quieter than the noise around us.
"Yeah," I said without hesitation. "I remember every time."
Her gaze flicked down, away, like she wished she hadn't asked.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "I remember what happened after we left the bench, too."
Her head snapped up, eyes sharp, like the words had struck somewhere deeper than I meant them to.
I pressed on, softer, almost to myself. "A year apart, and then it was like we hadn't lost a minute. I still think about that night."
Her mouth parted, but no sound came. She looked away again, jaw tight, her hands folded in her lap like she needed them to stay still.
My hand twitched against the bench, betraying me. I didn't reach for her, not yet. But she noticed—the smallest glance, then back at me—and the silence that followed carried every unsaid thing between us.
Her voice dropped a notch. "This bench always gets us in trouble."
I smiled, leaning closer. "Maybe I like trouble."
Her lips curved, small but definite. "You would."
I leaned in, and for a moment she didn't move. When our mouths met, her response was soft but cautious, like she was testing the edges of something she already knew was dangerous.
Her hand came up, palm flat against my chest — a barrier at first. But it didn't push. Her fingers curled instead, holding there like she couldn't quite let go.
When she drew back, her eyes flicked around the park, sharp again. "Brooks. You're running for vice president, for crying out loud. People could see."
I should've cared. She clearly did. Every instinct said back off, let her go. Cameras, consequences, her eyes scanning the path — all of it screaming stop.
But five years hadn't taught me restraint. If anything, it had burned it out of me.
"I don't care," I said, too fast, too certain.
She shook her head, almost laughing, but it wasn't light. "This isn't smart. I shouldn't even be here."
The words sat between us, heavier than either of us wanted to admit. She looked down at her lap, her fingers flexing once, then still. I stayed where I was, close enough to feel her shift but not enough to touch.
Silence stretched, the kind that could've broken either way. I let it ache, let it test both of us, and still I didn't move back.
Then I leaned in, reckless with it, catching her mouth with mine again. She let me, tense at first, until something in her gave way.
The city kept moving. We stayed still. Two ghosts, choosing—for this moment at least—to be real.