22.0
Sunlight spilled through the blinds in strips, dust motes turning lazy in the air.
Alina sat on the rug with her crayons spread out around her like treasure.
The pinks were dull from overuse, wrappers peeled halfway down. The blues were worn to the paper. She was determined, tongue caught between her teeth as she pressed hard into the page.
I sat cross-legged beside her, feeling ridiculous at first—knees bent at angles they hadn't seen in years, my shirt sleeves rolled up because she'd already said, you look too fancy to color in that.
"You're coloring slow," she said, eyes still fixed on her drawing.
"I'm thinking about my strategy," I told her.
She frowned, squinting like she was trying to decide if I was teasing her. "We're just coloring."
"That's what you think."
Her laugh broke out, sudden and bright. It hit something in me I hadn't felt in years. Not happiness exactly—something quieter. Relief.
I wasn't used to this kind of quiet joy.
Every sound in the house had its own pulse—the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint trickle of running water from the kitchen, the low melody coming from Amira's phone speaker.
She was rinsing dishes, humming under her breath. I couldn't see her face, but I could picture the expression: that slight furrow in her brow when she focused, the small smile that never quite made it to her mouth.
There was something about her moving through the house like she owned it, like she belonged there in every sense, that made me feel both calm and off-balance at once.
I turned back to Alina. "What color are you using now?"
"Green," she said firmly. "For the grass."
"Good choice."
She didn't look up, but she nodded like she'd been waiting for my approval. My chest tightened.
Every movement she made—every sound—was another reminder that I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know how to be this kind of father. Every time she smiled, relief came rushing in. Every time she hesitated, I panicked.
I wanted so badly not to get it wrong that I was afraid to move too fast, afraid she'd see through me and decide she didn't need me after all.
But she didn't need perfect. She just needed present.
"Do you like coloring?" she asked suddenly.
"I do now," I said.
Her grin was all teeth and sunlight. "You can keep that one." She pointed at my page—a lopsided flower that looked more like a misshapen sun.
"I'll hang it in my office," I said.
She gasped. "Really?"
"Really."
She beamed so wide it hurt to look at her.
From the kitchen, Amira glanced over her shoulder. She had a towel in her hand, water dripping from her fingers, and for the first time since I walked in, she smiled.
Not a polite one, not the kind she used to give strangers. A real one.
Small, proud, and a little sad.
Her smile always carried more weight than it should've.
Alina switched to purple, drawing something that looked vaguely like three stick figures holding hands. "That's me, Mommy, and you," she explained, pointing to each one in turn.
"Which one's me?"
She tilted her head. "The tall one."
"I'm not that tall."
She leaned against my arm after that, her curls brushing my sleeve. The first time she'd done it, I'd gone completely still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too loud. Now, I let myself relax into it, slow and careful, pretending like my heart wasn't trying to climb out of my chest.
That simple, instinctive trust—her leaning into me without hesitation—did more to me than any applause, any accomplishment, ever had.
In that moment, I didn't care about cameras or donors or speeches. I just wanted to stay still enough not to ruin it.
From the doorway, Amira's voice came soft. "You two okay in here?"
"Yeah," I said, keeping my eyes on Alina's drawing. "We're good."
She nodded, her gaze flicking between us—curious, almost protective. She didn't hover, but she didn't leave either. Just leaned against the frame, her arms crossed loosely, watching the two of us like she was trying to memorize what it looked like.
Alina lifted her drawing, proud. "You can keep this one too."
"I'm running out of wall space," I said lightly.
"Then make more."
Her certainty made me laugh. "You sound like your mom."
"I know," she said confidently, then looked up at Amira. "Mommy, Brooks draws like a kid."
Amira laughed—a low, easy sound I hadn't realized I'd missed. "That's because he hasn't practiced in a while."
I turned to her, half-smiling. "Didn't realize I was being critiqued by professionals."
Alina yawned, rubbing her eyes with one small fist.
"Sleepy?" I asked.
"Just resting."
"Uh-huh." I chuckled. "You sound like me."
When Alina finally got distracted by her dolls, I wandered into the kitchen.
Amira was at the sink again, rinsing out a mug. Her sleeves were pushed to her elbows, water catching the light as it slid down her forearms.
"She said something funny earlier," I said, leaning against the counter.
"Oh?"
"Apparently, I'm better than Mommy's friend Kian."
Her head snapped around. "She said that?"
"Yeah." I smirked. "Sounded pretty confident about it, too."
Amira rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. "You're taking the word of a child?"
"When it works in my favor, absolutely."
That earned me a quiet laugh. She dried her hands with a towel, but I caught the faintest shift in her body language—shoulders tightening, eyes not quite meeting mine.
"I didn't know they'd met," I said casually, though something about the name sat wrong on my tongue.
I had no reason to know why they met I just wanted to bug her.
"She's been by the shop a few times with me," Amira said. "They talked once or twice. Nothing deep."
"He works there?"
She hesitated. "He owns it."
I blinked. "Your boss?"
That made her look up—flat expression, unimpressed. "Don't start."
"I'm not," I said, hands raised. "I just didn't know you were working for Kian."
"You say that like I had to tell you every detail about him."
"I'm not," I said, holding up my hands. "I just—" a slow grin tugged at my mouth—"never took you for the sleeping-with-your-boss type of girl."
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Funny."
"Relax," I said, laughing under my breath. "I'm kidding. Mostly."
Her eyes cut toward me, sharp now. "Im not sleeping with him anymore and even if I was, it's none of your business."
I held up my hands again, but the grin stayed. "Touchy."
"Because it's not funny." She dropped the towel on the counter, her voice quieter now, but firmer. "He's been weird lately, and I'm not in the mood to joke about it."
That made the smirk die on my face. "Weird how?"
She shrugged, looking away. "Just... weird. I'm fine, though."
I wanted to press, but something about her tone said not to. So I nodded, leaning back against the counter again, eyes tracing the curve of her jaw as she exhaled.
"I wasn't trying to be an ass," I said finally.
"I know."
For a second, neither of us said anything. The only sound was the faint laughter from the living room.
Then she looked at me—really looked—and some of that tension softened.
"Don't make that face," she said.
"What face?"
I smiled, slow. "Old habit."
"Bad one," she said, turning back to the sink.
"Working on it."
She gave a short laugh, quiet but genuine. "Sure you are."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy — just comfortable. Familiar in a way that made it harder to remember all the reasons we were supposed to keep things simple.
I checked my watch, then sighed. "I should get going. Dinner at Cyrus DeLuca's place. Bryan's whole family's gonna be there."
Amira smirked. "That sounds... painful."
"You have no idea," I said. "Three hours of small talk."
"Could be worse."
"Could it?" I asked, lifting a brow.
She thought about it. "It could but I can't think of anything funny fast enough to say."
I laughed, low and easy. "Thats fair."
Her hair had slipped over her shoulder, curls falling loose and soft. I reached out without thinking, running a finger through one before tucking it gently behind her ear. The kind of touch that said too much for how casual it looked.
She didn't pull away.
For a second, I just looked at her — at the calm she carried even when she was clearly tired, at the warmth that always made the room feel different. Then I leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.
"Whatever's happening at the shop," I said quietly, "if you need anything — anything at all — just let me know."
She nodded, eyes on the floor but voice steady. "I will."
"Good."
I turned toward the door, but she called out before I could reach it.
"Alina," she said, raising her voice just enough. "Come say bye to Brooks."
Tiny footsteps thundered down the hall. Alina appeared, curls bouncing, bracelet flashing in the light.
"Bye, Brooks!" she said, all grin and energy.
I crouched down to her level, smiling. "Bye, bug. Be good for your mom, yeah?"
She nodded, solemnly. "I'm always good."
"Can't argue with that," I said, laughing.
She threw her arms around my neck, quick and tight, before darting back toward the living room.
I straightened, meeting Amira's eyes one last time. "I'll see you next time."
She nodded. "Drive safe."
I smiled, soft. "Always."
The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, I just stood there — the echo of her laugh and Alina's hug lingering in my chest longer than they should've.
Then I headed for the car, already dreading the noise waiting for me on the other side of town.
Halfway through the drive, my phone buzzed in the cup holder. I glanced down at the screen at a red light.
I typed back quickly.
The light turned green. The city blurred by in flashes—buildings, headlights, the kind of noise that made it too easy to think.
By the time I pulled into the garage, my chest already felt tight again. The warmth from earlier — Alina's hug, Amira's laugh — faded fast against the marble and glass of the penthouse lobby.