36.0 #2
She handed me a small velvet box — not for jewelry, but for keys.
"This is everything," she said. "Signed, stamped, filed. It's officially hers."
Her name printed across every document.
Every deed.
Every license of ownership.
All Amira.
"All utilities are active, paperwork is settled, and the cleaners should be here shortly," Lorraine added. "Your team confirmed they'll arrive in thirty minutes."
"Good," I said. "Thank you so much for all your help."
I looked down at the velvet box in my hand — then slid it safely into my coat pocket.
One more stop.
One more surprise.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, the sun had already dipped low, leaving the sky streaked in deep purple and amber.
The house glowed from the inside — soft, warm, lived-in.
I pocketed the keys and the velvet box before stepping inside.
I walked through the kitchen and headed for the stairs.
Halfway up, I heard the blow dryer click off.
Then—
"Brooks?"
Her voice — soft, curious, expectant.
"I'm home," I called back.
When I reached the bedroom doorway, I stopped.
Because Amira was standing at the vanity, sliding a earring into place, hair curled in soft spirals down her back, wearing a black dress that made it hard to remember we had plans in a few hours.
She glanced at me through the mirror.
"Hi," she said — shy in a way that still hit me right in the throat. "You look nice."
I set my jacket on the bed and stepped closer. "You look..."
A slow exhale.
"Unbelievable."
A smiled formed immediately. "Stop you're making me lose focus."
"What?" I teased, leaning against the vanity. "I can't compliment my girl on her birthday?"
She tried — and failed — to hide a smile.
"I'm trying to finish getting ready. You're distracting."
"That's the point."
She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders softened when I reached forward to fix the clasp on her necklace.
"You all set?" I asked quietly.
"Almost," she said, brushing a curl behind her shoulder. "Alina's with Tim, lunch is made for tomorrow, and I changed her sheets."
I huffed a soft laugh. "You did all that on your birthday?"
She shrugged. "Mom things."
I let my hand slide down her back, slow enough that she felt it.
"Tonight you're not doing mom things," I murmured. "Tonight you're doing birthday things."
Her eyes fluttered for half a second.
And because I loved watching her melt just a little, I added,
"You ready to let me spoil you a bit?"
She nudged me with her shoulder. "You spoil me every day."
"Not like I'm going to tonight."
Her breath hitched.
Just a little.
But I heard it.
Her voice dipped softer. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
She groaned. "You and your surprises."
I kissed her temple. "You love my surprises."
"That's debatable."
I raised a brow.
She cracked — laughing under her breath. "Okay. Maybe I do."
"Let me change my clothes really quick".
The closet light clicked on, humming softly as I pulled open drawers and reached for black.
I peeled off the clothes I'd worn earlier. Changed piece by piece, the fabric cool against my skin as I buttoned, zipped, straightened.
I grabbed my wallet, fixed my collar, and offered her my hand.
"Come on," I said. "It's after 8 we're going into New York."
She slid her fingers into mine.
And just before we walked downstairs, she tugged gently on my arm.
"Brooks?"
"Yeah?"
She bit her lip — a nervous habit she probably didn't even notice.
"You look really good tonight."
The compliment was soft. Small. But it hit deeper than she knew.
I smirked. "Trying to get me flustered?"
She stepped past me, hips swaying just enough to make my pulse skip.
"Maybe," she tossed over her shoulder.
We left the house hand-in-hand, the night stretching open and full of possibility.
The drive into the city was quiet in the way that felt full — her hand on my thigh, my thumb tracing circles over her knuckles, her eyes drifting to the window every so often like she was trying not to smile too hard.
When I pulled up to the restaurant, her breath caught.
"Brooks..." she whispered, looking up at the glowing sign. "This place is impossible to get a reservation at."
I killed the engine and got out before she could finish protesting.
By the time I opened her door, she was already shaking her head.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," I said simply, offering my hand.
She took it, stepping out slowly, black dress hugging her in a way that made my chest tighten.
Inside, the restaurant was low-lit and warm — candles glowing, soft jazz spilling through the room, couples tucked into dim corners like secrets.
The hostess greeted us with a polite smile.
"Mr. Whitmore, your table is ready."
We were seated in a small booth against the wall, facing each other with a tall candle flickering between us.
She opened her menu. "Everything looks so expensive."
I shrugged. "It's your birthday."
"That doesn't mean I want you to—"
"I want to," I repeated, meeting her eyes fully this time. "Let me."
Her lips parted, softness blooming across her face — that look she gave me when she wanted to argue but couldn't quite make herself do it.
"Fine," she murmured. "But I'm ordering something normal."
I reached across the table, brushing my thumb over her knuckles.
When the waiter came, she ordered exactly what I predicted.
When the plates were cleared and the wine half-finished she leaned back, playing with the end of her hair.
"I have a job interview Monday."
I raised a brow. "Yeah?"
She nodded, excitement slipping through her voice even as she tried to keep it contained.
"It's at a shop in New York. The owner's really sweet. The only thing is... it's almost an hour away."
"So?" I said. "If it's what you want, it's worth it."
She bit her lip. "There's a daycare right around the corner too. A good one."
"Even better," I said. "You excited?"
She smiled — small, hopeful. "I am. I think it will go good."
I squeezed her hand. "It will."
She hesitated. "What about you? The election is... soon."
I shook my head. "We're not talking about that tonight."
"Brooks—"
"I mean it," I said softly. "The election can wait."
She nodded, letting it go.
Then I added, "I saw Margot today."
Her eyes widened. "What? How... how did that go?"
"Better than I expected," I said honestly. "We talked. Cleared the air. I apologized for my part. She apologized for hers."
Amira's face softened in a way I didn't expect.
"I'm... glad," she said quietly. "Even though she and I aren't... friends. I don't know your world, Brooks. Not the parts you two grew up in. I can't judge how complicated that must've been."
She fiddled with her napkin.
"I just want good things for you. For her too. Even if I don't like her."
I laughed gently. "Yeah, you definitely don't like her."
She smiled. "No. But I don't hate her either."
The honesty of it hit deeper than she knew.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"For what?"
"For giving care to something that didn't benefit you."
She shrugged. "That's what people do when they love someone."
I squeezed her hand again, letting the moment settle.
On the way to the car, she linked her arm through mine, resting her head briefly on my shoulder.
Once we were on the road, she connected her phone to the carplay.
A few soft notes played.
I shot her a look that transferred into a smile. We had an inside joke that whenever she was in the mood she would play wgft.
She tried — badly — to play innocent.
"What?" she said.
"You're not subtle."
"Maybe I wasn't trying to be."
I shook my head, laughing under my breath — right as she leaned over and pressed her lips softly to my jaw.
Then to my neck.
Her hand slid up my thigh.
"Amira," I warned, even though my grip tightened on the wheel.
"You're driving," she whispered. "Not blind."
"Yet," I muttered.
She giggled — then kissed me again, slow, warm, deliberate.
My pulse hit the gas pedal before my foot did.
And then she went still.
"Brooks?" she said, brow furrowing. "You missed our exit."
"I know."
"Then where are we—"
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the black satin blindfold.
She blinked a smirk taking over her face. "Are we about to roleplay?"
I laughed, shaking my head. "Put this on."
She stuck her tongue out at me but slipped the satin over her eyes anyway, tightening the knot like she'd done this for real a thousand times.
"You sound nervous," she teased.
"I'm not nervous."
"You're definitely nervous."
"Amira."
She giggled so hard the blindfold shifted crooked.
I fixed it for her.
Her hand slid along my forearm, slow, warm.
"Okay," she whispered, suddenly softer. "I'm done teasing. I promise."
She wasn't.
She spent the next five minutes gasping at every turn, every stop, every bump.
I parked.
Cut the engine.
The silence was instant and heavy — not scary, just... charged.
I got out and opened her door. She reached for my hand like she always did, trusting and warm, fingers lacing through mine without hesitation.
"Careful," I murmured, guiding her step by step. "It's a little uneven."
"I know I said I wanted a fifty shades moment but I was thinking we'd get it built into the house," she muttered.
"Is this a swingers club? I know I used to be a stripper and all, but i'm not built for that."
The space breathed around us — cool air, the faintest echo, light brushing our skin even with her eyes covered.
"Okay," I murmured. "You can take it off."
She lifted the blindfold with one hand.
And froze.
Her lips parted.
Her breath hitched.
Her hand flew to her mouth like she physically couldn't hold it in.
"Brooks..." she whispered. "What is this...?"
We stood in the center of it.
High, sweeping ceilings with exposed beams.
Cream walls washed with golden light from towering windows.
French doors opening into a sunlit back patio.
Marble flooring still glossy from the cleaners.
Soft echoes bouncing like the room was waiting for life to fill it.
Her future.