Chapter 6 Brooks
Chapter six
Brooks
My phone lights up the dark cab for the third time, her name glowing against the dashboard.
Elorie: I don't know what's wrong, but I'm here when you're ready to talk. Please don’t shut me out.
Her words sit heavy in my chest. Please don't shut me out.
That's exactly what I'm doing. Even after she showed me her wounds from Denver.
Even after she trusted me with her softness.
Even after everything we've built in the last few days, I'm choosing fear over her.
And she's still here. Still fighting. Still refusing to let me sink.
And I'm throwing it away because I'm too afraid to fight for it.
I've been sitting in my driveway for an hour, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me from turning around.
My hands ache to touch her. I know exactly how she tastes, the sound she makes when I kiss that spot on her neck.
The phantom feeling of her softness against me makes my chest tight.
I force my fingers to release the wheel. Force my legs to carry me out of the truck and across the gravel drive. The key turns in the lock with a click that sounds too loud, too final. The cabin swallows me whole, dark and silent and exactly as empty as I deserve.
I don't turn on the lights.
The space presses in from every corner, cold and safe.
So fucking safe. And so fucking empty. I sink onto the couch and drop my head into my hands, my ribs feeling too tight around my lungs.
My fingers tremble where they press against my skull, and every part of me screams to go back, to fix this, to choose her over fear.
But I don't move.
I just sit there in the dark, letting the distance grow between us, wondering when I became the kind of man who runs from the only good thing he's had in years.
If I don't turn back now, I'll lose the one thing I didn't think I deserved.
But turning back means risking her. Means trusting myself not to fail. Means believing I'm worth the chance she's offering, and I don't. I can't. Not when I see Marcus' face every time I close my eyes. Not when I know exactly how it feels to make the wrong call and watch someone die because of it.
The darkness thickens. Time stretches. My phone stays silent.
She's given up. Smart woman.
Then headlights sweep through the window.
That engine sound… wait. No. That's her car, not a truck. My pulse kicks hard. She can't be here. Not now. Not when I'm this close to breaking.
A car door slams. Determined footsteps cross the porch. Then pounding rattles the door.
"Brooks?" Her voice cuts through the wood. "I know you're in there. Please open the door."
Every muscle locks down. I can't move, can't breathe.
More pounding, harder this time. "Brooks, open the door, or I'm breaking a window."
I believe her.
I cross the room on autopilot and unlock the deadbolt. When I pull the door open, she looks furious. Eyes bright with tears she refuses to shed, jaw locked tight, hands curled into fists at her sides. Her curls are wild like she's been running her hands through them.
She pushes past me before I can close the door on her and this conversation.
"You don't get to do this." Her voice shakes but doesn't break.
"Elorie—"
"No." The anger radiating off her makes me take a step back. "You can’t make me feel like the most important thing in your world and then vanish. I’ll give you all the time you need to process what you’re going through, but you’re not running without giving me a reason.
" Her voice rises despite her obvious effort to keep it level. "I deserve better than that."
She's right. She deserves everything, and I'm giving her nothing.
"I'm protecting you," I say. The words are cold and bitter on my tongue.
"From what?" Her fists tighten. "From danger that’s in your past? From yourself? That's not your choice to make, Brooks. That's ours."
"From what happens when I fail." The confession rips out of me before I can stop it. "When I make the wrong call and people die because of it."
"This is about Marcus. About the fire."
"It's about the fact that I get people killed." I take another step back, my shoulders hunching inward like I'm bracing for a blow. "I made a call seven years ago that cost Marcus his life. What happens when I make another one that costs yours?"
"That's not—"
"It is." My voice rises, raw with pain that's been festering too long.
"Yesterday, there was a fire, and I flashed back to the worst day of my life.
I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the certainty that everything was about to collapse.
" I drag a hand through my hair, pulling hard enough that my scalp burns.
"And all I could see was you, standing there when something goes wrong.
Me being too slow or too broken or too fucking scared to save you. "
Tears shine in her eyes, but she crosses the space between us and cups my face, forcing me to look at her.
Her palms are warm against my jaw, soft skin over rigid muscle.
Her hands tremble slightly, and I feel the tremor echo through me.
Wild grief stares back at me from her eyes, but underneath it is something fiercer. Something that refuses to let me run.
"Listen to me." Her voice shakes but stays steady. "You didn't kill Marcus. A ceiling collapsed. Fires don't follow rules or fairness. You made the best call you could with what you knew."
"It wasn't good enough."
"It was human." She presses closer until our bodies touch, until I can feel that she's real and here and not leaving.
"You're not superhuman, Brooks. You're a man who saves people when he can.
Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes it isn't. But that doesn't mean you get to run from everyone important to you because you're terrified of failing them. "
"I can't lose you." The words tear out of me, desperate and raw enough to make my chest ache. "I can't survive it. Not again. Not with you at stake."
"Then don't leave me." She slides her hands into my hair, gripping tightly, pulling me down until our foreheads touch.
Her breath comes fast and uneven against my lips.
"Stay. Fight. Let me carry this with you instead of doing it alone.
That's what love means. It’s not your job to decide for both of us that it's too hard. "
I make a sound that's half sob, half exhale, and my arms circle her curves.
I pull her against my chest so hard the air rushes from her lungs, and I'm shaking.
My heart pounds wild and uneven, and she wraps her arms around my waist and holds on.
Lets me take what I need. Lets me feel that she's solid and real and not going anywhere.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair. "I'm so sorry. I thought—I was trying to—"
"I know." She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and I see the anger still simmering underneath her forgiveness. "But you can’t do it again. Next time you're scared, you talk to me. You let me in. You don't run. Do you understand?"
I search her face for a long moment. Whatever I find there makes the tension drain from my shoulders. "I understand."
"Good."
She kisses me then, hard and claiming, and I taste salt and determination on her lips. When we break apart, we're both gasping. She kisses me again, softer this time, and her thumb traces my jawline. The touch steadies something in me. Reminds me I planned for this moment.
"I have something for you," I say.
She blinks, confused by the shift. I take her hand and lead her to the bedroom, flipping on the lamp beside the bed.
The warm light fills the space, chasing away some of the darkness I've been drowning in.
I reach for the nightstand drawer and pull out the small wooden box I finished carving the other day.
Hand-carved. Simple. Beautiful in its plainness. The wood is smooth from hours of sanding until every edge was perfect.
I open it and turn it so she can see the top. Her initial, a single E, is carved into the wood in careful strokes. Hours of work distilled into something permanent.
"I made this for you," I say. "I wanted you to have something that says you're mine and I'm yours and this is real."
Her eyes brighten, shining with unshed tears. She takes the box from me, running her fingers over the carved initial. The wood is warm under her touch, and I watch her trace each line. She understands. I see the exact moment she realizes what this means. What I'm offering her.
"It's beautiful," she whispers.
"You're beautiful." I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "And you're mine. And I'm never running from that again."
She sets the box on the nightstand and looks at me. Her eyes are dark with need and fierce affection tangled together, and my control hangs by a thread.
"I need you," I say, and my voice drops to gravel. "Need to feel you. Need to prove to myself that you're real and alive."
"I'm here." She cups my face, anchoring me. "I'm real. I'm yours."
Those words shatter the last thread of my control.
My mouth crashes into hers, hungry and demanding. My hands are everywhere: her soft waist, her hair, sliding down to grip her wide hips hard enough to leave marks. I walk her backward until her back hits the wall, and I press my body against hers. Solid. Warm. Every inch of me against her softness.
My knee slides between her thighs, spreading them, and she gasps into my mouth. The sound drives me wild. My hand grips her ass while the other cups the back of her neck, controlling the angle of the kiss. Every nerve ending screams for her.
"I need to be inside you," I say against her lips. Not asking. Stating.
"I need that, too."
I lift her easily, and her legs wrap around my waist. I carry her to the bed and lay her down on sheets that smell like sleep and my aftershave. I stand at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her. She's flushed, her hair wild against my pillow, her eyes dark with want.