five #2
"Ignore me," I said with a shrug. I gesture toward the speaker, "You have me for a little while. Any song you want?"
He didn't answer right away. Just tilted his head, studying me again with that same quiet thoughtfulness.
"Do we have to start with that?" he asked.
I blinked, not thrown—but unsure. "With the dance?"
"With the routine," he clarified. "The... lines."
I smiled, slower this time. "You want something more authentic?"
"I want to talk to you," he said.
I crossed my arms lightly, letting my weight shift into one hip. "You want to talk?"
"If you're offering," he said.
That got a soft laugh out of me. "People usually pay extra for conversation."
"I would."
The silence stretched—comfortable, charged.
And for some reason, I stayed standing.
I tilted my head, lips tugging into something between curiosity and challenge.
"Come on. I'm working," I said, but softer this time.
I had time for the games.
And we both knew it.
He didn't blink.
Then, with quiet ease, he reached into his coat and set a folded stack of hundreds on the table. No flash. No cockiness. Just... there. Clean. Final.
The sound of it hitting the wood felt louder than the music.
I looked down, then back at him.
"That was a joke," I said softly. "About paying for conversation."
He didn't blink. "It's for your time. However you want to spend it."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach dip.
I didn't touch the money.
Didn't touch him either.
Just walked slowly to the speaker, lowered the volume until it felt like background music to a moment I hadn't expected.
Then I sat—not close, but close enough.
"You've got my attention, Mr. Not-Here-for-the-Party," I said, crossing one leg over the other.
He exhaled, slow and even. "Brooks," he said. "Just Brooks."
I raised a brow. "Alright, Brooks. If you didn't come here for the dance..." I let the sentence trail off before saying, point-blank:
"What are you doing here?"
His eyes didn't move.
I let my fingers trail along the edge of the couch cushion, thinking.
"You chasing something?" I continued.
He gave me a look. "A feeling."
"What kind of feeling?"
He didn't answer right away.
So I pressed. "Let me guess. Something you thought you saw in me?"
He nodded once.
"I should warn you," I said, voice low. "Men confuse that feeling with a lot of things. Lust. Curiosity. Escape."
"I'm not confused."
"Mm," I said. "You sure?"
His jaw shifted.
The silence settled again—lighter this time, like it had permission to stretch between us. I didn't know what he wanted exactly. Maybe he didn't either.
But he wasn't leering. Wasn't trying to impress. Just... there. Present.
He looked like a man who had a lot of people's attention but wasn't sure what to do with someone who didn't beg for his.
"So," I said, leaning back slightly, "Is this your thing?"
"I told you," he said, "I don't come to places like this often."
Places like this.
I tilted my head. "And yet... here you are."
"And here you are," he countered.
Fair.
I sat with that for a beat, letting the music hum low in the background. I was used to men asking me questions that led nowhere. Trying to impress me with their wallets or break me with their silence. He wasn't doing either.
He wasn't doing much of anything.
And maybe that's what threw me off.
"You're not gonna ask for my name again?" I asked, after a beat.
"No," he said. "Not tonight."
That surprised me.
I gave a short laugh, just one. "Why not?"
"Because you'll tell me when you want to," he said. "Or you won't."
He said it without expectation. Without trying to pin me down. And for a moment, I wanted to give it anyway. Just because it felt like mine again.
But I didn't.
Instead, I rose slowly from the couch and walked to the side table. Picked up the stack of hundreds, flipped through it absently. Then I looked back at him.
"You know, Brooks," I said, "Most guys ask for a lot more for a lot less."
He stood too, but didn't close the distance. Just slid his hands into his pockets and gave the smallest nod.
"Then I guess I'm not most guys."
I stared at him a beat longer. And then, without really knowing why, I smiled.
Not because he was charming.
But because, somehow, he was honest.
"Alright enough with the jokes." I sighed. "What's on your mind?"
He looked down at his drink, then back up. "I don't know."
I let out a quiet breath. "Bad answer."
"It's the only honest one I've got."
I tilted my head. "So you were just drawn to me and that's why you're back?"
"Something like that."
"You know how that sounds, right?"
He smiled, faintly. "Obsessive?"
"Worse," I said. "Bored."
He blinked. That one hit.
I pressed on. "Men like you... when you're tired of your life, you don't change it. You pick something shiny. Something new. You stare at it like it'll mean something. And then when it doesn't? You put it back."
He held my gaze. "That what you think I'm doing?"
"I think you don't know what you're doing," I said. "And you're hoping I make it feel like a decision."
He looked at me then—not like I'd offended him. But like he was seeing me clearer than he expected to.
I didn't look away.
"I'm not a collector's item," I added.
He nodded, slowly. "Fair."
Another beat passed.
"You think I don't see you," he said. "But I do."
"You see a version of me," I replied. "And that's all you're looking for."
"Is it wrong to want to understand the person behind what everyone else sees?"
"No," I said. "But it's na?ve to think she wants to be understood by you."
His jaw ticked. Like he didn't know if he should be flattered or embarrassed.
"Alright," he said finally. "What would it take?"
I smiled—not sweet. Not coy. Just tired.
"I don't need saving, Brooks. I need people to stop pretending like I'm a mystery to solve."
Silence stretched, but it wasn't tense anymore.
It was real.
And it left room for something else—something that felt more like mutual curiosity than pursuit.
He stood as I did, slower this time.
"I didn't mean to cross a line," he said, almost quiet.
"You didn't," I replied. "You're just not the first man to mistake his intimacy for interest."
I walked to the door and paused, one hand on the handle. I didn't mean it as an insult—just a quiet truth I'd learned to carry.
He didn't look away. But he didn't rush to defend himself either.
"I'm not mad you came back," I said after a beat. "I just don't think you know what you're chasing."
That made him shift slightly. Just enough to know I'd struck something real.
"You think you want me," I went on, gentler now. "But you don't see me yet. Not really. Not past the heels and the name and whatever idea you've built in your head."
"You seem like someone who's used to getting what he wants. But I'm not something you get."
I turned and left.
Not with bitterness.
But with just enough softness to make him wonder if he'd get the chance again.
The hush of the hallway met me again.
But something about me felt louder.