19.0 #3
"You're welcome," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.
He stayed there for a long moment, watching her line up crayons, asking little questions like he was afraid to scare her off. Her favorite color. Her favorite food. What she wanted to be when she grew up.
He listened—really listened—like every answer mattered.
Something inside me ached. Not because it hurt, but because it was too much to hold all at once—the love, the loss.
I caught myself staring at the glasses again. They made him look different. Older. Tired in a way that went past sleeplessness.
When Alina laughed—loud and bright—he glanced up at me for the first time since he'd walked in. His eyes softened just enough for me to see it: the guilt, the wonder, the disbelief.
"I didn't know what to expect," he said quietly.
"I didn't either," I admitted. "But you're doing fine."
He nodded once, looked back at Alina. "She's... she's incredible."
"She is," I whispered.
I sat down on the arm of the couch, close enough to see but far enough to let them have their moment and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I stopped trying to control how it all felt.
Brooks stayed on the floor beside her, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on her every move.
She was talking about her favorite color again—pink, because it was "the happiest one." He smiled faintly, like he was hearing the word for the first time.
When she handed him a crayon, he hesitated. "You want me to color with you?"
She nodded. "You can use the blue one. Mommy says blue's for calm."
His throat moved, a quiet swallow. "She's right."
He took the crayon between his fingers, tentative, almost careful.
The sight of him—this man who always looked so composed, so sure—sitting cross-legged, coloring inside cartoon lines, made my chest tighten in a way I couldn't name.
He wasn't saying much, but everything in his body language spoke louder than words.
Every time Alina laughed, his shoulders eased. Every time she asked a question, he gave her his full attention, answering softly, like he was afraid to scare the moment away.
And me—I couldn't stop watching him.
The glasses kept sliding down his nose, and he pushed them back absently, focused only on her. His jacket was still on, but the longer he sat there, the smaller he seemed—not in stature, but in all the ways that used to make him feel untouchable.
It was strange. The man who'd once walked into every room certain he owned it now looked like he was trying to earn his place in one.
At one point, Alina held up her crayon and looked at him thoughtfully. "You can pick the next color," she said.
He smiled, tentative. "How about green?"
"Green's good," she decided, bending over her paper again. Her tongue peeked out as she concentrated, filling the page with uneven shapes and soft, determined lines.
When she finished, she blew on it dramatically, like that made it dry faster. "It's me," she said proudly. "With my bracelet."
Brooks leaned in, eyes tracing the stick figure with a crown of curls and a big, pink heart above her head. "You're an artist," he said quietly.
She grinned. "You can have it."
His hand hesitated before taking the paper, like touching it might break something sacred. "You sure?"
"Mhm. So you don't forget what I look like and you can bring me more gifts."
He let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh — more like a breath that cracked on its way out. "I won't forget what you look. I do promise to bring more gifts."
He looked like she'd handed him the whole world.
I turned away, pretending to tidy a few crayons just to breathe.
It was too much—watching him hold that paper, his thumb brushing the edge like it was something fragile.
When I looked back, he was already watching me.
Our eyes met, and for a second, everything stopped.
The tension that had been sitting between us since the porch was still there—but softer now, threaded with something almost tender.
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
The air between us shifted. Not forgiveness, not yet—but the kind of stillness that comes right before it.
Alina yawned, the kind that came from too much excitement and not enough nap. She crawled onto the couch beside me, curling into my side, the bracelet glinting against her wrist.
Brooks stood slowly, tucking the drawing into his coat pocket like it was made of glass.
I didn't stop him.
Didn't ask him to stay or to leave.
I just watched him—standing there in my living room, glasses low on his nose, looking at his daughter like she'd rearranged his entire universe in an hour.
There was no going back to before he knew, before she called him "Brooks" with that innocent trust. Whatever anger he still carried, whatever fear I still held—it all lived here now, in the space between the three of us.
He exhaled quietly, almost to himself, and when he looked up again, there was a softness there that hadn't been before. Something like resolve.
Whatever came next, I knew this part would never leave him.