seventeen
I woke up before he did.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
The ceiling above me was high and white, the walls bathed in a pale gray light that told me it was morning. Soft. Early.
It took me another breath to register the weight draped across my waist, the warmth of skin pressed against my back.
Brooks.
His arm was heavy around me, the broad curve of his palm resting low on my stomach. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, each exhale brushing warm across the back of my neck.
The memories came back all at once—his mouth, his hands, the way he'd looked at me like nothing else in the world existed.
I shut my eyes, breathing carefully, because if I didn't, it might all start to feel too real.
His thumb stirred against my skin, a small absent movement that made my pulse skip.
He was awake.
I didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
The quiet between us felt deeper somehow. Like we'd stripped away too much to ever pretend we were strangers again.
I focused on the window across the room, where the pale light crept slowly across the polished floorboards.
Finally, his voice broke the silence—low and rough from sleep. "What time is it?"
I swallowed, my throat dry. "I don't know."
His arm tightened around me, not enough to hurt—just enough to keep me there. "Don't get up yet."
I didn't move.
Another long moment passed. I could feel his heart beating slow and steady against my back.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
I turned my head, just enough to catch his profile in the early light. His hair was a little messy, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked younger like this. Almost soft.
Almost.
"I'm fine," I lied.
His gaze flicked down to my mouth, then back up. "Liar."
I didn't argue.
His hand slid up, his knuckles brushing the underside of my breast before settling over my ribcage. He exhaled a breath that sounded more like a confession.
He didn't push it. Just let the quiet stretch out again, his thumb drawing small circles against my skin.
I thought about getting up. About putting space between us before I started to believe this meant something it didn't.
But when I shifted, his arm locked tighter around me. "Don't," he said, voice low.
I went still.
A minute passed. Maybe longer.
Then he spoke, softer than I'd ever heard him. "I'm sorry."
I didn't answer.
His breath stirred the hair at my temple. "For all of it."
I closed my eyes. "I don't know if that changes anything."
He was quiet so long I almost thought he'd let it go. But then—
"When you walked in that night..." He drew a slow breath, like he needed it to steady himself. "I knew if I acknowledged you—if I so much as looked at you for too long—it would turn into something I couldn't control."
I turned onto my back, facing him fully. His arm shifted to rest over my hips, the warmth of his palm spreading across my stomach.
"And that's the worst thing you can imagine," I murmured. "Not being in control."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.
A beat passed before he spoke again, voice lower. "But that wasn't all of it." His gaze met mine, unflinching. "When I saw you sitting with him...I didn't know what that was and I hated the way it felt to wonder."
It was the first time he'd said that out loud.
I swallowed. My voice came out rougher than I meant. "So you decided it was easier to pretend I wasn't there."
His throat worked as he nodded once. "I did."
"And then you let me think you didn't care."
He nodded once, slow. "I thought it would be easier."
The honesty in his tone made my chest ache in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
I looked up at the ceiling, my heart beating too loud in my ears. "Did it help?"
"What?"
"Did it feel easier?"
A beat of silence. Then—so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
"No."
Something in my chest cracked.
His hand slipped up to my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "Amira."
I didn't want to look at him. I didn't want to see whatever was in his eyes when he said my name like that.
But I did.
And when I did, the air went out of my lungs.
Because he looked—
Not smug. Not guarded.
Just tired and honest mixed with a little bit afraid.
"I shouldn't have lied," he said. "About any of it."
I searched his face. "Then why did you?"
His thumb traced over my bottom lip, slow. "Because I've never wanted someone to see me the way you do. And I've never wanted someone I couldn't have."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I swallowed hard. "You could have just told me."
His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. "I didn't know how."
Silence settled again. Heavy. Careful.
I shifted under the sheets, the movement dragging my bare skin against his. His hand slipped down to rest over my hip.
"What now?" I asked, my voice small.
His eyes stayed on mine, unflinching. "Whatever you want."
I studied him, trying to find some sign he was playing me. Some hint of the calculated man who knew exactly how to get under my skin.
But there wasn't any.
Just Brooks.
And maybe that was worse.
Because it felt real.
I drew a careful breath. "This doesn't fix anything."
"I know."
"And it doesn't mean I trust you."
He nodded. "I know that too."
"But—" My throat felt tight. "I don't want to go yet."
His hand tightened on my hip. "Then don't."
I didn't.
Instead, I let him pull me back against his chest. Let his mouth find my temple. Let my eyes drift shut.
Because for one morning, I didn't have to decide what it all meant.
For one morning, I could pretend we weren't already doomed. That his hand on my hip meant something simple.
I don't remember when sleep finally pulled me under. Only that I woke hours later to the hush of the room and the space beside me empty.
I just lay there, staring at the pale gray ceiling while my mind tried to catch up with my body.
The sheets were pulled halfway up my hips. His pillow still held the warm impression of his head, but he wasn't here. I turned my face into it anyway, breathing in the ghost of his cologne.
God, what was I doing?
A low mechanical hum broke the hush—a vent kicking on somewhere overhead. The soft whoosh of air, the quiet that followed. Everything about this place felt expensive in a way I couldn't quite name. Not ostentatious. Just...composed.
Deliberate.
Like him.
I rolled onto my back and studied the ceiling, willing myself to get up. But part of me wanted to stay right here—where nothing had to make sense yet.
I wondered if he'd done that. If he'd woken before me, gathered his things, smoothed the fabric like he was trying to keep order in a place that didn't have any.
That was Brooks, wasn't it?
Even when everything fell apart, he was the man who'd straighten the edges.
My stomach twisted—not unpleasant, but not easy either.
I pushed up on my elbows, taking in the room properly for the first time.
It was bigger than my entire apartment. The California king bed sat against a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, sheer curtains diffusing the early sunlight into a soft haze.
No clutter. No stray receipts or loose change. No sign of a life that ever got messy.
Just like the rest of him—precise. Controlled.
My eyes drifted to the walk-in closet door, cracked open. A faint glow spilled out, like he'd left the light on and forgotten.
I slipped out of bed and padded across the warm wood floor. The closet smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—maybe the starch in his shirts.
I stood in the doorway, taking it all in.
Rows of dark suits hung by color. Crisp white shirts on uniform hangers. Shelves lined with polished leather shoes, each pair perfectly spaced. A small drawer unit in the corner held folded ties in a neat gradient of navy, gray, and black.
It was almost...calming.
A place for everything. Everything in its place.
I stepped inside. My fingers skimmed the sleeve of a suit, the smooth weave of fine wool. A fresh pang of something I didn't want to name bloomed low in my chest.
How many women had stood exactly here, touching his things, imagining they belonged?
I didn't want to know.
On a shelf in the corner sat a small leather box. Unmarked. The stitching clean and deliberate. Without thinking, I lifted the lid.
Inside, a row of polished cufflinks gleamed under the recessed lighting. Silver. Onyx. Nothing flashy—just elegant. Understated.
I let the lid fall closed.
This wasn't my world.
No matter how many nights I spent in this bed, I'd always feel like an interloper—someone who'd wandered in off the street and hadn't been asked to leave yet.
A soft clink from the other room startled me. I turned, pulse tripping.
But it wasn't him.
Just a housekeeping cart rolling slowly past the open door, the sound fading down the hall.
I exhaled, steadying myself as I stepped back into the bedroom.
On the far side of the bed, his phone sat on the nightstand—screen dark. Beside it: a half-empty glass of water, a silver watch, and a folded note.
I hadn't seen it before.
My throat went tight as I crossed the room.
The note was written on thick, cream paper. Heavy enough to feel expensive, like everything else he owned.
Did you really expect him to leave you nothing?
I picked it up, unfolding it carefully.
His handwriting was neater than I expected. Precise. Even. The kind of penmanship you'd imagine on contracts and checks with too many zeroes.
That was it.
No flourish. No sentiment he wasn't ready to show.
But the last line made something in my chest go soft, whether I wanted it to or not.
I set the note down, exhaling shakily.
Make yourself at home.
The absurdity of it made me laugh under my breath.
As if any place like this could ever feel like home to someone like me.
Still, I didn't pull my clothes back on right away. I walked to the window, my bare feet silent on the floor.
The skyline stretched out—steel and glass catching the pale sun, the river a dark line in the distance.
I pressed my hand to the glass.
This view wasn't mine.