seventeen #2
This life wasn't mine.
The hours slipped past in a hush so complete it almost felt staged.
I moved from the window to the kitchen and back again. Made coffee I didn't drink. Pulled my hair down, then twisted it back up. Anything to keep my hands busy.
I wasn't sure why I was still here.
Or maybe I was.
The lock turned just after two. A quiet click.
I froze.
He stepped inside, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
Brooks looked...different in the daylight. The suit—navy, faint pinstripe—looked expensive in the way only old money could. His tie was loosened, and a flush high on his cheekbones said he'd rushed to get here.
His eyes found me immediately and a smile quickly took over his face. His eyes softened in a way that made my chest ache.
"I didn't think you'd still be here."
I lifted a shoulder, trying for casual. "I almost wasn't."
His mouth curved—tired, but real. "I'm glad you are."
He crossed the room with that measured, deliberate way he always moved. But this time, he didn't stop a safe distance away. He came right to me, close enough that the heat of him sank into my skin.
One hand lifted to my cheek, thumb brushing under my eye. "You okay?"
I nodded, though the word stuck in my throat.
He searched my face, like he wasn't sure he believed me. Then he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to my forehead.
"You smell like my soap," he murmured against my skin.
My face went hot. "I—there wasn't any in the guest bath."
His smile turned softer. "I didn't say I minded."
I swallowed, pulse skipping. "I thought you were working all day."
"I am." His other hand traced my jaw, tipping my face up to his. "I had about forty minutes between meetings. I wanted to see you."
"Brooks."
His gaze met mine, and for a second, I forgot what I was going to say.
"You don't have to look so suspicious," he said quietly.
I looked away before I could embarrass myself.
His hand slipped to my hip, warm and steady. "Stay tonight."
"I'll think about it."
A soft huff of laughter. "I'll take it."
For a moment, he just looked at me, that little smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. Like he couldn't believe I was here either.
Then he straightened, glancing at the clock. "I need to get back downtown. There's a press conference tonight."
"About the campaign?"
He nodded, sliding his jacket off and draping it neatly over a chair. "We're announcing some endorsements. My mother's thrilled."
He said it in a tone that sounded anything but thrilled.
I let my gaze travel over him—perfect shirt, perfect trousers—and felt the same pinch in my chest.
"Is that considered a big night?" I asked lightly.
"Just one of a hundred." He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. "There's a gala in a few weeks. Part fundraiser, part press event."
He didn't look at me when he said it.
"Sounds terrifying. Are you going?"
His jaw flexed. "I don't have much of a choice."
"Of course."
He glanced back, studying me. "It'll be tedious."
I didn't know what to say.
Before I could fill the quiet, he stepped in again. His hand came to the small of my back, warm and sure.
"You sure you're alright?"
I nodded.
His forehead rested lightly against mine. "You'll be here when I get back?"
"If you want me to be."
His mouth brushed the edge of mine. "I do."
For a second, he lingered there.
Then he straightened, collecting his jacket and slipping it back on. "Lock the door behind me."
I nodded.
He moved to the door. But before he left, he looked over his shoulder, that almost-smile softening his face.
"I'm glad you stayed."
The door clicked shut.
I just stood there, staring, like he might come back.
He didn't.
Of course he didn't.
I turned away, drawing in a careful breath. The penthouse felt too big again, all soft light and quiet spaces I didn't know how to fill.
When I passed the kitchen island, I caught my reflection in the dark glass of the cabinets. My hair a mess around my shoulders. My mouth a little too swollen.
The kettle on the stove was still warm from earlier. I flipped it back on, just to have something to do. A task. A purpose. Anything that felt normal.
The water reached a low simmer. I poured it over a tea bag I'd found in the cupboard. Chamomile. Probably something he never drank himself, just stocked for guests he didn't really have.
I carried the cup into the living room and sank onto the couch. My body ached in ways I couldn't quite name. Good aches. Dangerous ones.
I told myself I was fine.
That was the thing about telling yourself something often enough—it almost started to feel true.
The cup was still half-full when my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Sam.
I stared at the screen for a second, my pulse picking up like I'd just been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to.
Then I answered.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself," she said, all bright suspicion. "You alive?"
I closed my eyes. "Barely."
"Where are you at? You never texted me back last night."
I hesitated, chewing my lip. "I'm...still out."
"Out where?"
I took a breath. "At someone's place."
She was quiet for half a beat. "Wait. Who's?"
"Brooks."
"...Brooks Brooks?"
"Yeah."
"Amira." Her voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. "What the actual hell happened?"
I pressed my fingers to my temple. "It's...a long story."
"It's midday we've got time."
I let out a shaky breath. "He showed up at the club."
"Last night?"
"Yeah."
"Okay...and?"
"He wanted to talk. We..." I swallowed. "We talked. About everything."
"Everything everything?"
"I told him I knew who he was. About the family. About all of it."
Her breath caught. "Wow. How'd he take that?"
"Better than I thought he would." I picked at a loose thread on my robe. "He didn't deny it. He said he was sorry."
"And you...believed him?"
I looked out at the skyline, blurry in the morning haze. "I don't know."
Silence.
"You okay?" she asked, gentler now.
"I think so."
"You sound..."
"Tired?"
"Like you got thoroughly...handled."
I choked on a laugh. "Sam." I pressed my hand over my face. "We ended up leaving together."
"Oh my God."