29.0 #3
He didn't move for a second, then set the box down and came closer. "You don't have to act like this doesn't suck," he said quietly.
I gave a small laugh, though it came out flat. "You say that like it's going to make it suck less."
He smiled — a sad one this time — and reached out, brushing his thumb across my jaw. "I know. But we'll get through it."
I looked up at him, his hand still resting there, and for a moment it almost felt like peace. Just two people standing in a half-empty house, pretending everything wasn't falling apart.
"Come on," he said finally. "We should get going."
A few hours later Alina was buckled in the backseat, her tablet on her lap, already halfway through a cartoon. The van trailed behind us, full of everything we hadn't yet learned to let go of.
"I can't wait for vacation," she said suddenly, grinning at the window.
Brooks glanced at me, then back at the road. "Yeah?"
"Yeah! I'm gonna swim and eat ice cream and stay up all night!"
He smiled softly. "Sounds like a plan."
I kept my eyes on the passing skyline — Philly fading smaller in the distance. My heart tugged, heavy but familiar. The last time I left this city, I was running too. From pain, from fear, from everything I didn't want to feel.
And now here I was again, leaving in a rush, holding onto the same man, wondering if this was fate or a loop I couldn't break.
When we pulled up, the house looked untouched but upkept — like time had held its breath around it. Same white shutters. Same rose bushes along the fence. Even the air felt familiar, thick with the scent of rain and cedar.
Brooks cut the engine and looked over at me. "Still hate it?"
I swallowed. "I never hated it," I said softly. "I just... didn't think I'd ever see it again."
He nodded once. "I get that."
Alina pressed her face to the window. "This is our new house?"
"For a little while," I said.
Inside, everything was the same. The same worn hardwood, the same faint lemon smell that clung to the curtains. It was like walking into a memory that hadn't aged.
I ran my hand along the banister. The same hallway where we used to argue, laugh, touch.
The afternoon light slanted through the living-room blinds, painting gold stripes across the floor. Somewhere down the hall, a record hummed low — one of Brooks's old jazz albums he insisted "sounded better on vinyl."
I was in the kitchen, barefoot, cutting fruit trying to make a dessert recipe I had seen on tiktok. Behind me, the faucet turned on, then off, and when I looked up, Brooks was leaning against the counter with a towel over his shoulder, watching me like he had nothing better to do.
"You're gonna cut yourself," he said.
I didn't look up. "I haven't yet."
"That's not comforting."
I smiled faintly. "Then stop staring at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to mess up."
He pushed off the counter, stepping closer. "Maybe I'm waiting for an excuse."
"An excuse for what?"
"To help."
I laughed under my breath. "You just want to be near me."
He came up behind me, one hand brushing my hip as he reached for a strawberry. "Busted," he murmured, voice low against my ear.
"Brooks."
"Mmm?"
"You're distracting."
"That's the point."
I turned around to glare at him, but he was already grinning — the kind of grin that made it impossible to stay annoyed.
His tie was loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hair was still damp from the shower.
He looked like he'd just come home from saving the world, and I was trying not to care how good he smelled doing it.
"You always look at me like that after work?" I asked.
He feigned innocence. "Like what?"
"Like you forgot the part where you're supposed to let go of the day."
He stepped in closer until I could feel the heat of him through my T-shirt. "Maybe this is how I let go."
I opened my mouth to reply, but he plucked the knife gently from my hand and set it in the sink. "You're dangerous with that," he said, eyes still on me.
"And you're bossy."
He leaned down then, just enough that his breath skimmed my jaw. "You smell like peaches."
"That's because I was cutting peaches."
"I know."
His hand brushed the small of my back, thumb tracing absent circles against my skin. The music in the other room crackled softly, the record popping just before the trumpet came back in.
I rolled my eyes, but he kissed me before I could answer — slow, tasting of strawberries and summer.
When he pulled back, he looked at me the way he always did when he was trying not to say something too big. "It's only been two months but you make this place feel like home already," he said quietly.
Standing in that same spot now, surrounded by boxes and silence, I could almost hear it — his voice, low and teasing, the sound of laughter bouncing off the walls.
I blinked, the weight of it all sinking in.
This time, it wasn't just a new beginning. It was everything that came before it, following us here.
And somewhere deep down, I couldn't shake the fear that history was waiting to repeat itself.