22.0 #3
The living room was dim except for the lamp near the couch. A soft cartoon hum still came from the TV, volume low enough to blend with the city outside.
I followed her in, watching her tuck a stray braid behind her ear as she moved a few of Alina's toys out of the way. The domesticity of it all—bare feet, pink pajamas, faint scent of coconut lotion—felt too easy, too dangerous.
"Sit," she said, nodding toward the couch.
I did. The cushions sank a little under my weight. She sat beside me, cross-legged, pulling the drawstring on her pants tighter without looking up. Our knees brushed once, accidentally. Neither of us moved.
"How was dinner?" she asked after a moment, tone casual but soft.
"Same old," I said. "Too much wine, too many smiles. Same people, same questions."
She smiled faintly. "Sounds fun."
"It used to be," I said before I could stop myself. "This one felt different, though."
She looked over. "Different how?"
I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck.
"It just... doesn't feel like the last one. When I was running for Senate, I wanted it. Every event felt like it mattered. Every handshake, every endorsement—it was something I was building. This time, it's like I'm maintaining something I don't even want."
Her brows drew together. "Then why do it?"
I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Because I already said yes," I said finally. "And once you're in, you don't just walk away. Not in my family."
She studied me for a moment. "But you're not your dad, Brooks."
That sat between us for a while—quiet, heavy, too close to the truth.
Her braid slipped over her shoulder. Without thinking, I reached out and brushed it back for her. My fingers barely grazed her collarbone. She froze for half a second but didn't pull away.
Then I cleared my throat, pretending it hadn't happened. "So... Kian."
Amira groaned immediately. "Please don't."
I smirked. "No, I'm curious. You said things weren't going well but it's fine, but I know that tone."
She leaned back against the cushion. "He's being weird, that's all. Petty. I didn't want to go to his uncle's event, and now he's taking it out on me at work."
I felt something in me stiffen. "Then find somewhere else. I can—"
"Brooks." She gave me that look—the one that softened and scolded at the same time. "I can handle it. I just have to find something that works for me and Alina's daycare schedule."
Her voice caught a little when she said Alina's name. I glanced toward the hallway where her tiny pink backpack hung.
"When do we tell her?" I asked quietly.
Amira's head lifted. "Tell her what?"
"That I'm her dad."
She hesitated, eyes flickering down before softening. "Soon," she said finally. "She really likes you. I just don't want to confuse her right now. To her, you're still 'Mommy's friend.'"
I nodded slowly, even though something about the word friend felt like a punch to the ribs.
I nodded slowly. "And my parents?"
"That's another story," she said, voice thin.
"They'll find out eventually."
"I know."
The silence stretched—thick, heavy, alive. I leaned back, letting my arm fall across the back of the couch. My fingertips brushed her shoulder when I shifted. She noticed—her breath caught, quick, almost imperceptible.
"I'll protect you both," I said finally. "Whatever comes of it."
She looked at me then, eyes soft but wary. "I'm not worried about them," she said. "I'm worried about us."
Her words sat between us like something fragile.
I should've looked away. Instead, I let my gaze linger—her mouth, her hands fidgeting with the drawstring, the tiny twitch in her jaw when she got nervous.
Without meaning to, my thumb grazed her knee—just a light, absent-minded motion as I adjusted, but it made her go still.
She looked up, met my eyes.
"Amira," I said quietly.
"Brooks."
The air between us thinned, charged. My knee brushed hers again, deliberate this time. She didn't move. Her fingers stilled on her lap, her breathing slower now, shallow and deliberate.
I leaned in, just a fraction—close enough to feel her exhale hit my skin. Her lashes flickered up, and for a heartbeat it felt inevitable, the kind of pull you don't talk yourself out of.
Then the cartoon jingle on the TV changed, bright and sudden, cutting straight through it.
She blinked, sitting back a little too fast, a faint smile ghosting her lips. "Friends."
"Co-parents," I corrected, forcing a laugh that didn't sound real.
Her eyes softened. "Right."
The moment folded in on itself. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand, shoulders slumping with exhaustion.
I stood, slipping on my jacket. "I should go."
She nodded, barely lifting her head. "Drive safe."
At the door, I hesitated. The glow from the lamp hit her face just right—tired, beautiful, completely unaware of what she was doing to me.
"Goodnight, Amira."
She smiled without opening her eyes. "Night, Brooks."
I stepped outside into the cool air, the door clicking softly behind me.
The ache in my chest wasn't clean—it was guilt and longing tangled together, impossible to separate.