thirty-five #2
I pressed my lips together, letting my gaze drop to where his shirt had pulled loose at the collar. A button hung open, the sharp line of his collarbone catching the light. Normally, I'd trace it with my fingers, lean in to breathe him in. Tonight, I just... didn't.
He kissed me again, slow, almost testing. His palm slid under my sweater, fingertips brushing the lace edge of my bra. His other hand cupped my cheek, holding me there. It should've felt grounding. Instead, it felt like my body was a few seconds behind my mind, answering him out of habit.
I tried to focus on his mouth—on the familiar shape of it, the way he always deepened the kiss right before breaking it. But every time I closed my eyes, Margot's name barged in, uninvited. His father's voice, clipped and sure. Marriage. Not to me.
Brooks shifted, pushing me gently back against the couch, his weight settling between my knees. He kissed down my neck, murmured something I couldn't even register over the noise in my head.
My throat tightened. I let my hands drift up his back, nails grazing over the fine cotton of his shirt, but the connection still wouldn't come. It felt like I was playing a part I hadn't rehearsed for.
He studied me for a beat too long, then leaned in again, his kisses picking up pace like he could outrun whatever wall I'd just put up. His hand slid up my thigh, bunching my skirt higher, his knee nudging between mine.
The couch shifted again. My breathing sped up, but not from excitement—more from the pressure of having to perform, to meet him where he was when I wasn't even close.
I kissed him harder, hoping I could fake my way into wanting this. It almost worked for a second—until he pulled back to look at me, his thumb stroking over my bottom lip.
"You're not here," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "I'm here."
"Not really." His voice was soft, but it landed heavy.
We stayed like that—him over me, me under him, both of us still—for a long moment. The weight of it pressed in from all sides, and I finally let my hands fall away from his back.
He eased off me, sitting back on the couch, running a hand over his face. "If you don't want to—"
"It's not that," I cut in, even though it kind of was. "I just—" I exhaled, shaking my head. "I don't know."
He didn't push. Just sat there beside me, close enough for our legs to touch, but not reaching for me again. His breathing slowed, matching mine, until the only sound was the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen.
I curled my knees up, tucking my skirt back into place. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" he asked, still not looking at me.
I stared at my hands. "For-"
That made him glance over, brow furrowed. "Amira, you're not a performance you don't need to apologize. You don't have to be 'on' with me."
I nodded, even though part of me wasn't sure if that was true—not with everything else in the air.
We didn't turn the TV on. Didn't put on music. Didn't fill the air with anything to make it easier.
Brooks stayed on the couch for a while, phone in his hand but not really scrolling, just thumbing the screen like he was debating a message he'd never send. I stayed curled up, staring at a fray in the hem of my skirt until my eyes burned.
Eventually, he leaned back, stretching one arm along the top of the couch. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said, like it was nothing, and disappeared down the hall.
He disappeared down the hall and the water came on—hard, steady—like he'd turned the pressure all the way up just to drown out the rest of the night.
I stayed on the couch, skirt tugged back into place, sweater pulled down, palms flat on my thighs like I had to prove I still fit inside my own body.
The TV was off; the room was too still. Somewhere in the vent a baseboard clicked as the heat kicked in.
I listened to it like it might count for company.
The shower ran and ran.
I stared at the ceiling until the plaster swam a little, then pushed myself up. The hall mirror caught me in passing—hair mussed from his hands, mouth a little swollen, sweater stretched out at the hem. I didn't stop. I didn't want that picture yet.
In the bedroom, the lamps were low. His side of the duvet was turned back from earlier, a faint imprint where he'd sat on the edge and laced his shoes, the quiet domestic evidence of a life I'd wanted and wasn't sure I recognized.
I sat there now, in the same dent, and picked at a loose thread until it split and curled.
The shower cut off. Silence filled the house again—heavy, alert—like it was waiting to see what version of us came out next.
He padded in a minute later, towel slung low, hair damp and uneven like he'd raked through it more than he'd dried it.
He gave me a soft, searching smile, the kind he used when he wanted to smooth the edges without pretending nothing was wrong.
He didn't reach for me right away. He crossed to his dresser, tugged on a worn t-shirt and sweats, then came back to the bed and slid in beside me.
His arm went around my waist like muscle memory. The weight of it was warm, familiar—anchor and ache, both. I let him pull me close. I let my cheek find his chest. He kissed the top of my head, slow.
"C'mere," he said, barely above a whisper.
I went, because saying no felt too loud.
His breathing steadied under my ear, that calm, even rhythm that had put me to sleep a hundred times.
Tonight it made my eyes burn. He tucked my hair behind my ear like it was ritual.
I kept my hands to myself, fingers folded under my chin so I wouldn't reflexively perform the comfort back to him.
He fell asleep fast. He always did when his head was heavy—like his body made the decision for him. The small muscles at the corner of his mouth relaxed first. The slow slackening of his jaw. The long exhale that said the day was finally done with him.
I stared at the far wall and traced the crooked shadow of the dresser across the rug.
The clock on his nightstand clicked from 12:23 to 12:24.
I counted my breaths to match his and lost track on purpose.
Every time my mind stilled, the same three words rose up: Margot.
Marriage. Compare. They didn't come with images—just the blunt shape of them, banging around the quiet like a drawer you forgot to close.
I tried to bargain with myself. You are here. He chose you. He said it's serious. But the part of me that made lists whispered back: You canceled Evelyn. You shelved the space search this week. You are shrinking around someone else's weather.
At 12:41, I eased out from under his arm. He stirred—made a soft sound that hit me where it always did—but didn't wake. I stood there a beat, watching the rise and fall of his chest like a lighthouse blinking through fog. Then I took my phone and went to the bathroom.
The overhead light was too much, so I used the one over the sink. It hummed and washed me in a thin, honest brightness.
I braced my palms on the countertop, the cool stone grounding and a little cruel. Water ran cold when I turned it—sharp enough to snap the heaviness for a second. I splashed my face, then just stood there dripping, waiting for the sting to settle into something I could name.