Thirty-Five.2 （Bonus） #2
"You're not a performance," I said finally, glancing over. "You don't have to be 'on' with me."
I meant it. Even if part of me still feared that one day, she'd stop wanting to be here at all.
We didn't turn the TV on. Didn't put on music. Didn't fill the air with anything to make it easier.
I stayed on the couch for a while, phone in my hand but not really looking at it, just thumbing the screen like maybe if I stared at it long enough I'd find the right words—some magic sentence that could pull her back to me. But the truth was, I didn't even know where to start.
She was curled up next to me, knees to her chest, watching some loose thread on her skirt like it had the answers. And I knew her well enough to know she wasn't really seeing it—she was somewhere else entirely.
I leaned back, stretched my arm along the top of the couch.
"I'm gonna take a shower," I said, keeping my voice light, casual.
Like the room didn't feel a mile wide. Then I stood and walked down the hall before I said something I'd regret out of looking for reassurance that this was something she still wanted.
The water came on hard, steaming the mirror almost instantly. I turned it up as far as it would go, like maybe the sound could drown out the way tonight had gone.
I braced my hands against the tile and let the spray hit the back of my neck until it burned.
My mind wouldn't stop replaying the look on her face—how she kissed me like she was supposed to, not like she wanted to.
How her hands fell away like she'd decided somewhere in the middle that it wasn't worth holding on.
I hated myself for thinking it, but I've seen this before. The slow pull-away. The polite lies about being fine. I've been on the wrong side of someone's drifting before, and it's the kind of thing you can smell in the air before it's even real.
She says she's here, but her eyes are somewhere I can't follow.
And the sick part? I'm terrified that the only way I know to get her back in the room with me is to touch her. To make her remember us with my hands, my mouth, the way we've always done when words fall short. But tonight even that didn't work.
I love her. God, I love her more than I've ever loved anyone. And still—there's this voice in my head, my father's voice, telling me nothing this good lasts. That people take what they want from you until they find something better.
I told her she doesn't have to be "on" with me, and I meant it. But the truth I didn't say is that I don't know who I am if she decides she doesn't want to be here anymore. I don't know how to let her go, and I don't think I'd survive it clean.
The steam blurred everything around me, and for a second, I let myself picture her walking out. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Just... one day. And I couldn't breathe.
I stood there until the water ran cooler, until the sound wasn't enough to drown out the thought that maybe she's already halfway gone.
The water shut off, but I stayed in the steam another minute, palms braced on the tile, head tipped forward. I thought about the look she gave me downstairs—how it wasn't anger exactly, just that quiet measuring, like she was asking herself if she could still believe me.
Margot's name still hung between us. I could tell myself it's my dad's fault for bringing her up every damn time, but the truth is, I let it live in the air. I don't shut it down fast enough. I don't tell him to stop like I should. And that's on me.
I don't blame her for hating it. If the positions were reversed, I'd hate it too—knowing my partner's parents didn't want me at the table, hearing about someone they thought would fit better.
She left her own life to move into mine, to try and make space in a world that was never designed with her in mind.
And I'm still learning how to protect that space.
Still figuring out how to hold her steady without making it worse.
By the time I walked into the bedroom, she was sitting in that same place on the bed I'd been in earlier, sweater loose around her shoulders. I wanted to go straight to her and say all of it, but I didn't know where to start without making it sound like another promise I might not keep.
So I got dressed, slid in beside her, and let my arm settle around her waist. She came closer, but I could feel the distance under her skin. I kissed the top of her head, slow, hoping it read as more than a reflex.
"C'mere," I murmured. She did, but I could tell she wasn't all the way here.
I lay there listening to her breathing, thinking about how new this still is for me—letting someone into my life past the edges of comfort, past the careful version I know how to manage. I don't want to take a wrong step, but doing nothing feels just as dangerous.
Somewhere in the drift toward sleep, she slipped out of my arms. I almost called her name, but I didn't. I just listened for the bathroom light, the water, the faint hum over the sink. I stayed still until she came back.
When she slid under the blanket again, I found her without opening my eyes. My palm on her ribs felt like the only thing I could offer right then—steady, warm, here. "You okay?" I asked, knowing she might say yes even if she wasn't.
"I'm okay," she whispered.
I hummed and pulled her in. Maybe too tightly. Maybe just enough.
I honestly had so much fun writing Brooks POV and honestly I think it's so needed for the duration of the story.
I definitely see myself going back and writing some of his POV's for previous chapters once i'm done.
How did you guys feel about it?