eight #3
The city outside the window passed in soft blurs—tail lights, closed storefronts, blinking crosswalks. I watched the skyline shift as we headed east again. The streets got cleaner. Quieter. Buildings taller.
When we pulled up, it was to one of those buildings I'd passed before but never really seen. Glass, marble, gold accents that didn't scream—they whispered. Discreet money. Real money.
The doorman opened our car door before Monte even parked fully. Brooks thanked him like they were on a first-name basis. I followed him into the building, trying not to look like I was taking it all in even though I absolutely was.
Inside, the lobby was stunning—cream stone floors, a massive floral arrangement on a round marble table, abstract paintings that probably cost more than my rent. The lighting was warm and low, almost like candlelight.
But what got me wasn't the design.
It was the way people shifted when Brooks walked in.
The security guard straightened up. The concierge nodded with that polished kind of respect usually reserved for people you don't want to disappoint. Everyone greeted him quietly, like he wasn't just a tenant—he was someone.
He didn't react. Just nodded back, casual, unfazed.
Like this was normal.
We stepped into the private elevator. He tapped a key card. The doors closed.
I stayed quiet for a second before I asked, softly, "So... how long have you lived here?"
He leaned against the back wall, hands in his pockets. "Few years. Grew up a few blocks from here, but when I started working, I wanted a place with less... history."
"Is that your way of saying you didn't want to live with your parents?"
He grinned. "Pretty much."
I smirked, then looked up as the elevator slowed. When the doors opened, it led straight into his place.
The entryway alone was bigger than my entire apartment.
It wasn't gaudy, though. It was clean. Wide, open layout. Concrete and glass, but still warm. Soft lighting. A long shelf held a few framed photos—black and white shots of family, a few abstract sculptures, a stack of old jazz records.
He dropped his keys in a dish near the door and toed off his shoes. "You can keep your slides on if you want, or not. Up to you."
I stepped in slowly, trying not to gape. The floor was warm underfoot. The walls were lined with bookshelves and clean art—one piece caught my eye, a huge canvas with soft strokes of blue and rust and ivory.
"This is beautiful," I said.
Brooks glanced over. "Thanks. My mom picked most of it. I think she got tired of my 'minimalist bachelor' phase."
I laughed and followed him into the kitchen. It had one of those sleek, black-and-white setups with hidden appliances and under-counter lights. He opened a cabinet and pulled down a couple mugs.
"Do you want a water?"
I briefly looked at him to nod before looking around again.
I wandered to the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the city like a painting. I could see all of East Philly glittering in the dark.
Behind me, I heard him pour the water. The soft clink of glass. A drawer sliding shut.
For a second, I just stood there. In the quiet. Letting it all wash over me.
I hadn't felt this calm in weeks.
Maybe longer.
I took it with a quiet "thank you," fingers brushing the glass.
He nodded toward a stairwell tucked just past the kitchen. "Wanna go up to the living room? It's quieter."
I nodded and followed him up the sleek, floating stairs—black steel and wood that creaked just enough to remind you it was real. The upper floor opened into a wide loft-style space. Warm lighting. Tall ceilings. The kind of view people paid to stand next to.
The living room was beautiful, but still masculine—structured leather couch in a deep charcoal, walnut bookshelves built into the wall, a record player in the corner, thick curtains half-pulled aside. No fluff. No showy centerpieces. Just intentional. Comfortable. Lived in.
He picked up a remote from the coffee table and flicked on the TV, landing on some slow, artsy movie where people talked more than they moved. He didn't ask what I wanted to watch—just let it play low in the background, like it was there to give the night a hum.
I sat on the couch, folding one leg underneath me. The water sat in my lap. Cold against the inside of my wrist.
Brooks sat across from me, a little angled in my direction. Not too close. Just enough.
And then we started talking again. Not about anything important at first—just movies, music, places we'd always wanted to go. He told me about growing up in Philly and I shared a story about growing up in the New York. One of the few memories that weren't tainted.
The conversation didn't feel like effort.
It felt like the kind of thing that might've happened in a different version of my life. One where I didn't dance for a living. One where he didn't walk into clubs and buy hours like chapters in a book.
I don't even remember what made us laugh—but we both did, soft and real, and it echoed into the open space like a secret.
And for a moment, I wasn't thinking about the club, my past, or what came after this.
Just us in this moment.
And the way this night somehow didn't feel like a transaction.