25.0 #3
He got out first, circling around to open the back door. Brooks scooped her up gently, her head dropping against his shoulder. She was small enough that she fit perfectly there, her arm dangling limp over his chest.
I followed behind them up the stairs, keys shaking faintly in my hand.
Inside, Brooks carried her straight to her room, laying her down without waking her.
When he stepped back into the hallway, I was still standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe.
"I'm gonna shower," I said quietly.
He nodded once. "Take your time."
I closed the bathroom door behind me. The tile was cool under my feet. I turned on the shower, twisting the knob all the way to hot until the pipes groaned and steam started to rise.
For a second, I just stood there, watching the water hit the porcelain, listening to the rhythm of it—steady, endless.
Then something cracked.
It didn't start with tears. It started with breath—short, shallow, uneven. My throat locked up like it didn't know how to let air through anymore.
I leaned against the sink, palms flat, chest heaving. My reflection blurred behind the fog, eyes red, lips trembling. I tried to breathe through it, to stay upright, but the sob hit hard and ugly, tearing through my chest like it had been waiting all day for permission.
I slid down to the floor, knees pulled in, hands over my mouth to muffle the sound. The crying came in waves—sharp, uncontrollable, more panic than pain.
It wasn't just about her.
It was everything.
The years between us. The silence. The memory of being seventeen and unwanted. The fact that she died before I ever got to forgive her—or stop blaming her.
I gasped between sobs, trying to catch breath that wouldn't come.
The tile was cold under my legs. The water kept running, hissing steady like background noise to the breakdown.
The crying came harder before it got softer. My chest burned. My throat felt raw. Every time I tried to stop, another sound tore loose — small, broken, useless.
I barely heard the knock.
"Amira?" Brooks's voice was low, careful.
I couldn't answer. I tried, but the breath caught halfway.
A second later, the door creaked open. Steam rolled out in soft clouds around him.
He hesitated in the doorway — suit jacket gone, tie undone, sleeves rolled past his elbows. When his eyes found me, he froze for a moment.
"Hey," he said quietly. No questions. Just that.
I wiped at my face, but the tears kept coming, ugly and uncoordinated. "I'm fine," I managed. The lie broke halfway through the word.
He crouched down in front of me, slow and deliberate, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. I didn't.
His hand touched my knee first — just a light, grounding pressure. "You don't have to be," he murmured.
Something about that broke whatever was left of my composure. I leaned forward before I could think, forehead pressed to his shoulder. My breath came out in hiccuping gasps against his shirt.
He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in. Not tight. Just enough to hold me together. His other hand slid up to the back of my neck, fingers steady, thumb tracing small, slow circles.
"It's okay," he said quietly, almost to himself. "You're okay."
I shook my head against him. "I'm not."
He didn't argue. Just kept holding me, letting me breathe through the shaking until the sound of the shower filled the silence between us.
The smell of his cologne mixed with steam and soap, grounding me in the smallest, strangest way. My breathing started to slow.
Brooks leaned back enough to look at me. His eyes were steady, soft in a way that made it hard to keep looking at them. "You've been holding this in too long," he said.
I nodded, but the motion barely registered. "I didn't even like her," I whispered. "And I still—" My voice cracked. "I still feel like I lost something."
"You did," he said simply.
That made it worse somehow — not the words, but how calm he sounded saying them. Like he'd already made peace with the fact that grief doesn't need permission.
I pressed my face back into his shoulder. My fingers found the fabric of his shirt and held on.
He shifted, sitting down fully on the tile beside me, pulling me into his chest. I could feel his heartbeat against my ear, steady and unhurried.
We stayed like that. The shower kept running. The mirror stayed fogged. The world shrank to the sound of water, breath, and the soft rasp of his thumb against my arm.
Eventually, the sobs thinned into quiet shakes. My breathing leveled out.
Brooks brushed a damp curl from my cheek. "Come on," he murmured. "Let's get you off the floor."
He stood first, then reached for me. I let him pull me up, legs weak, face still wet. He didn't look away, didn't flinch at any of it.
When I turned to shut off the water, his hand stayed at the small of my back — not possessive, just there.
He grabbed a towel and held it out. I took it without meeting his eyes.
"Go lay down," he said softly. "I'll clean up."
I didn't argue. Just nodded and stepped out of the bathroom, the towel heavy in my hands.
I heard the faucet turn off as I walked down the hall. For once, the quiet didn't ask anything of me.