forty-one #3
I shifted on the bench, pulling my hood tighter like that could shield me. "That's not always a good thing."
"No," he said, and for once there wasn't a trace of charm in his voice. Just something quiet, worn down. "It's not."
The silence this time wasn't comfortable, but I didn't move. Neither did he.
After a moment, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring out at the empty park. "I used to think about it, though. Nights like this. Us, sitting out here with boxes of sugar we didn't need, acting like the rest of the world didn't exist."
My throat felt tight. "That wasn't real life."
He turned to me then, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. "It was real enough for me."
That stopped me. Just for a second.
I dropped my gaze, fingers tightening on the cardboard edges of my box, trying to find the safer side of the memory, the lighter one. "You kept making corny jokes that night."
That tugged another laugh out of him, low and rough. "You still went home with me."
I swallowed hard, wishing I didn't remember it as vividly as he did.
I coughed lightly, more to cut the air than anything, and shifted on the bench. "So..." I searched for safer ground, something neutral, something that didn't scrape against old scars. "How's—being a senator?"
His mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "Busy. Lonelier than it looks."
I nodded, eyes on the lamplight across the street. "And Margot?"
That name settled between us like glass shattering in slow motion.
His jaw flexed. "She's fine."
Silence stretched so tight it hummed. I tugged at the hem of my sleeve, suddenly too aware of how close we were sitting, how much heavier the air had gotten.
"I had a long day," I said finally, pushing the words out with a small exhale. "I should probably head home."
I started to stand, but his voice caught me before I could take a step.
"Wait."
It wasn't loud. Just firm enough to hold me in place. I looked back, one hand still on the bench, and found him watching me with something that felt like it didn't belong in public.
"Can we..." He stopped, dragging a hand over his face before dropping it. "Can we just talk? Really talk? I don't know how to do this any other way with you."
The weight of it pressed down, all the things we'd both avoided for two years circling close.
The way he said it—it wasn't practiced, wasn't polished. Not the voice he used in interviews or on campaign stages. Just raw, like he'd finally let something crack through.
I sank back down, slow, the box still clutched in my hands. "About what?"
He studied me, his eyes searching like he wanted to pin me to the bench until I gave him every answer. "About us. About what happened."
My chest tightened. "There's nothing left to say."
"There's everything left to say." His voice sharpened, then softened again. "You disappeared, Amira. One day we were—" He broke off, shaking his head. "And then you were just gone."
I stared at the ground, the cracks in the sidewalk suddenly fascinating. "Those last few months were really hard for me."
"You didn't even give me a choice," he pressed, leaning in. "I would've fought for you. I would've—"
"Stop." The word came out sharper than I meant, and my throat burned. I forced myself to look at him then, meet the blue of his eyes under the dim streetlight. "You didn't fight. Not really. Not when it mattered."
That landed, clean and quiet. His jaw worked, but he didn't argue right away.
For a second, neither of us moved. Just the night breathing between us, heavy and unsteady.
His jaw flexed once, twice, before he finally spoke.
"You think I didn't fight? Amira, my entire life—every conversation, every headline, every family dinner—was a fight. And when it came to you..."
He exhaled hard, voice lower now. "I didn't know how to make you believe you were the only thing that wasn't a performance."
My throat pulled tight. "You could've shown me. Not just with words, not just when it was convenient—"
"I was twenty-four," he cut in, sharper than he probably meant to. "Drowning in obligations I didn't ask for. I thought I had time to figure out how to balance both. I thought you'd give me time."
That stung, because it wasn't completely untrue. My fingers pressed into the cardboard box until it buckled under my grip. "You thought I'd wait around, watching you parade with someone else while I was a secret you tucked away at night?"
His face flickered, just once, like I'd struck somewhere he wasn't ready for. "It wasn't like that."
"It was exactly like that." My voice cracked on the last word, but I didn't look away.
He sat back, running both hands through his hair, like he needed something to hold onto. For the first time, he didn't look composed. He looked... wrecked. "I never stopped wanting you. Even when I tried, even when I told myself it was better—for you, for me, for everything else—I never stopped."
I stood this time for real, the box clutched to my chest like it could shield me. "Please. Stop."
My voice was low but steady, and it surprised even me. "I spent too long trying to scrape you out of my system. Months where I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep without feeling like I was choking on you. And now, finally—finally—I've had a year of breathing without you in my mind."
He was on his feet before I could take another step, his shadow folding over mine under the streetlight. "Amira."
"Don't." I shook my head, forcing the word past the knot in my throat. "Don't pull me back there. I can't... I can't undo everything I've worked for just because you feel guilty now."
His jaw tightened, but his voice—God, his voice was steady. Certain. "This isn't guilt."
I laughed once, sharp and bitter. "What else would it be?"
"There hasn't been a day," he said, firm enough that it stopped me mid-step. "Not one day in two years that I haven't thought about you. Not one night I didn't wonder where you were, if you were okay, if someone else was making you laugh the way I used to."
My chest caved in at that, but I forced myself to keep my back straight. "That's not enough."
His eyes locked on mine, raw in a way that cut past every wall I'd tried to build. "Then tell me what is. Tell me how to make it enough. Because I am not letting you walk out of my life again."
I shook my head and pushed up from the bench, the box digging into my arms. "I can't do this."
"Amira—"
"No." My voice cut through the quiet, sharper than I intended. "You've had your chance, Brooks. I learned how to survive without you, and now you want to sit here and act like..." I let out a breath, shaking my head. "Like what? That we could just rewind?"
He rose too, closing the space between us. "Because I can't pretend like that year erased anything. There hasn't been a day I didn't think of you."
I barked out a short, humorless laugh. "You had Margot."
His face shifted, not defensive, just raw. "Margot was never you and you know that."
The words lodged in my throat, and I hated that my body betrayed me, my heart stuttering even as my mind screamed to walk. "Don't," I whispered, trying to move past him. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
He caught my wrist—not rough, not forceful, just enough to stop me.
His eyes searched mine, steady, unflinching.
"I'm not letting you walk away from me again. Not this time. If you tell me you feel nothing—if you look me in the eye and swear it—fine, I'll let go. But if you don't..."
His grip tightened just slightly. "Then stop lying for both of us."
My lips parted, but no words came out. The streetlight buzzed above, the night holding its breath. I wanted to say I felt nothing, to make it easy, to end it clean. But the way he was looking at me, like I was still the only thing that mattered, undid every wall I thought I'd built.
The box slipped from my arms, hitting the sidewalk with a dull thud and before I could talk myself out of it, his mouth was on mine—urgent, aching, like two years had been building to this single break in time.
And God help me, I kissed him back.