24.0 #2
"Hey," she said, half-smiling. "You look like you escaped a meeting."
"I did."
"Lucky you." She stepped aside.
The smell of garlic and something buttery filled the kitchen. Alina was sitting on a stool near the counter, plastic tiara crooked on her head. She had a big spoon mixing something in a bowl.
"Look who's here," Amira said.
Alina turned around, face lighting up like a sparkler. "Brooks!"
"Hey, kiddo." I crouched down so we were eye-level. "You cooking dinner tonight?"
She nodded seriously. "Mommy says I'm her chew chef."
I laughed at chew chef, knowing she meant sous chef. "Fancy title."
She giggled and went back to her bowl.
Amira leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching her daughter. "She's been on a 'helper' kick lately."
"That's a good habit," I said, glancing over the stove. "What are we making?"
"Chicken Alfredo. Simple, but it gets the job done."
"Brooks you can help too," Alina beamed. "Ask mommy can you help too."
I smiled. "Mind if I help?"
She looked at me for a beat, pretending to think. "Only if you can follow instructions."
I laughed. "I'm a fast learner."
We moved easily around each other. Alina handed me the spoon, telling me very seriously that I had to stir "exactly six times."
By the time we sat down, Alina was already talking through a story about her daycare friend who, apparently, didn't know how to color inside the lines. I listened, nodding, adding the right "no way" and "what happened next?" like I'd been trained for this role my whole life.
Halfway through her meal, she pointed her fork at me.
"I saw you on TV today," she said suddenly.
I blinked. "You did?"
Amira's eyes shot up, cautious but quiet.
"Uh-huh," Alina said. "On the big screen in my classroom. You were wearing a suit, and my teacher said you were important." She beamed proudly. "I told her, 'That's my friend!' But she didn't believe me."
Brooks felt his throat tighten before he smiled. "She didn't, huh?"
Alina shook her head, curls bouncing. "Nope! She said people on TV don't come to daycare."
Amira laughed softly, but her eyes flicked toward me again—watchful.
"Well," I said carefully, "maybe I'll have to stop by one day so your teacher believes you."
Her whole face lit up. "You will?"
I nodded. "Maybe. We'll see."
She clapped her hands, thrilled. "I can show you my cubby! And the drawing I made of Mommy!"
"That sounds perfect," I said, but I could feel Amira's gaze on me—warm, but edged with something quieter.
When Alina jumped down from her chair to grab another juice box, I caught Amira's eye.
"That could get tricky," she said softly.
"I know," I murmured back.
She hesitated, then added, "She doesn't mean anything by it."
"I know that too," I said, offering a faint smile. "She's proud. That's all."
Amira's face softened. "She really is."
We both watched as Alina tore the straw wrapper off with her teeth, humming to herself. The TV light flickered faintly against the wall, the local news running in the background—something about the campaign, probably.
And for the first time that night, I felt the weight of it again—how small her world was, how big mine had become, and how eventually, those two things were going to meet whether we were ready or not.
After dinner, we tag-teamed the cleanup. Alina dried a fork or two before getting distracted and running off to her playroom. I washed. Amira wiped the counters. We didn't talk much, but it didn't feel like silence either.
When the water was off and the lights dimmed to a cozy glow, she called out softly, "Bedtime!"
Predictably, Alina groaned from the other room. "Five more minutes!"
"Five minutes was ten minutes ago," Amira said, crossing her arms.
I stepped in before the standoff escalated. "How about one story if you go now?"
Alina peeked around the corner, suspicious. "You'll read it?"
"If you pick the book."
She considered, then grinned. "Deal."
I followed her down the hall, pretending I wasn't getting too used to the sight of her room—the little bed with pink sheets, the pile of stuffed animals she insisted all needed names. She picked a picture book and climbed under the blanket, patting the spot next to her.
Amira lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smile on her face.
I read the story—half dramatic, half quiet—and by the time I reached the last page, Alina's eyelids were heavy. She mumbled something about princesses and dragons before finally drifting off.
I closed the book and sat there for a second, just looking at her. She was small but steady, her breathing soft, curls spilling across the pillow.
Amira whispered, "You're good with her."
I turned, and she was leaning against the doorframe, light hitting her hair just right.
"She makes it easy," I said.
We left the room quietly, the door clicking shut behind us.
Back in the living room, the lights were low. The rain had picked up again outside, tapping against the window in steady rhythm. Amira had went in her room to change into a pair of pajama pants before going into the kitchen.
She came back to the couch with two glasses of wine, her hair loose again, a faint tiredness in her eyes. I took mine when she handed it over, fingers brushing hers.
"You didn't have to stay."
"I wanted to."
She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. "You really think you're charming, don't you?"
"I don't think," I said. "I know."
That earned me another laugh — softer, truer. She tucked her legs under herself, turning slightly toward me.
For a minute, neither of us spoke. The TV was still on, muted, some late-night commercial flashing colors across the room. The air felt warm, heavy with that calm that only ever came after long days and long silences.
Then she sighed. "I quit the salon today."
I turned, eyebrows lifting. "You what?"
She nodded, voice even but low. "Kian's been impossible. Picking fights, cutting my hours. I just couldn't keep doing it."
"Good," I said, too fast. "You shouldn't have to deal with that."
She gave a small, humorless smile. "Yeah, well, bills don't care about my peace."
I set my glass down, leaning forward a little. "You don't have to worry about that."
"Brooks—"
"I mean it," I said, meeting her eyes. "Whatever you need — rent, daycare, car payment — I'll handle it."
She blinked, taken aback. "You can't just—"
"I can," I said again, firmer this time. "And I will. I don't ever want you stressing about money not when I can make sure you don't have to."
"Brooks, that's not—" She paused, softer now. "I have money saved. We'll be okay."
I studied her for a moment, the way her pride wrapped itself around her voice. Then I said, quieter, "Let me make it easier."
She sat quietly twirling her wine glass.
"If you want to keep working that's fine. You can take all the time you want at your own pace to find a salon that's a good place for you. I'm Alina's dad at the end of the day I should help out."
We killed the wine bottle without meaning to.
The TV was still muted, some sitcom mouthing laughs to an empty room.
Amira shifted and swung her legs into my lap like she'd been doing it forever.
Her ankle was warm in my hand; the little chain at her heel tapped against my thumb every time I kneaded the arch of her foot.
"Careful," she warned, eyes half-lidded. "If you do that long enough I'll forgive you for anything."
"Good to know," I said, rubbing slow circles into her instep until her shoulders dropped a fraction. "I'll keep it in my back pocket."
She took another small sip, glass tilted against her lip. "Do you remember the fundraiser Tati and Sam got me ready for? The first one I ever went to."
"Red dress," I said without thinking. "I'll never forget it."
Her mouth curved. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything," I said. It came out before I could blunt it. "Monte told me you looked good to go walking in. He lied. You were shaking."
"Snitch," she muttered, but she was smiling now, soft and a little undone. "I was terrified."
"I could tell," I said.
She watched me for a beat like the compliment had landed somewhere she didn't expect. "You were different that night too."
"How?"
"You looked at me like you were relieved," she said. "Like you'd been holding your breath."
I didn't answer. My thumb kept working the tendon at her ankle. Her lashes dipped, then lifted, like she was trying to decide if she wanted to stay serious or not.
"Remember the balcony?" she asked, eyes glinting.
I huffed a quiet laugh. "Vaguely. Might've blacked out."
"Oh please."
We let the memory sit there between us, warm as the wine.
We drifted from there into smaller, lighter things—Tati's wedding colors, the ridiculousness of me on daytime TV.
Every time she leaned forward to make a point, her knee brushed my thigh; every time I answered, my hand slid a little higher along her calf.
It wasn't planned. It just happened and then it kept happening.
At some point she set her empty glass on the table and melted farther into the cushion, legs still across me, chin tipped toward me like we'd been sharing a secret all night.
"Okay," she said, eyes glittering. "Your turn. Give me a memory."
"From when?"
"From us."
I could've said a hundred things. I picked the one that made my chest ache most.
"There was a day at the penthouse ," I said. "I want to say you cooked something and maybe we had went to lay down and watch Tv. Anyways, that night you had opened up to me about your parents I think I told you some stuff about my dad. I don't know. I think about that night a lot and how I felt."
She smiled at her knees. "That's very specific, Senator."
"Blame the wine," I said. "Or my ridiculous memory."
Her gaze lifted to mine and didn't move. The room felt smaller, warmer, like the couch had tilted us toward each other on purpose. My palm slid up from her ankle to the back of her calf. Her breath changed—barely, but I heard it.
"Say one," I told her. "Pick a memory."