seven #2
Everything felt still for a second—like the version of me who lived in this space, who dreamed in silence, didn't have to disappear just because Dream was clocking in.
I grabbed my heels, my keys, and the lightness I hadn't felt in a long time—and walked out the door.
The club was already warm when I walked in. Perfume clung to the air like mist, mixing with the thump of bass crawling through the walls. Girls drifted between mirrors and lockers in half-costumes, laughter spilling out in bursts, high and bright and sharp around the edges.
I dropped my bag at my usual spot and sat down in front of the mirror, still smiling to myself.
"Okay, who got you cheesin' like that?" Jazzy said, tugging at one of her curls in the reflection beside me.
I shrugged, lip gloss already in hand. "I'm just in a good mood. That's allowed, right?"
Keisha looked up from her eyeliner. "A good mood? You must've hit a scratch-off or something."
I laughed, uncapping my hairspray. "Nothing like that."
Truth was, I just felt... light. Focused. Like maybe my life didn't have to stay small. Like maybe something could shift if I pushed it hard enough.
But I wasn't ready to say any of that out loud. Not yet.
"You guys always think I need a reason to be happy," I said instead, leaning in to check my lashes. "Maybe I'm just in a good mood."
"You are glowing," Jazzy said. "Must've slept for once."
"Maybe I did."
They went back to getting ready—powdering, curling, adjusting heels. The usual rhythm. For a minute, everything just flowed. Easy.
Then Tim's voice came from down the hall.
"Dream?"
I turned.
He was at the doorway, squinting at his phone.
"I texted you earlier. Remember?"
And just like that, it hit me.
Private room.
Ten thousand.
Roses.
Brooks.
I blinked, like I could rewind the moment and make him say something else.
"I—sorry," I said, reaching for my phone and unlocking it.
"I need some hustle from you," Tim joked but he was still stern. "I don't think he paid ten thousand for you to be late."
I stood quickly, fluffing my hair out and slipping my heels on without thinking.
"Who got you booked for ten thousand?" Keisha called after me, laughing. "Does he have a friend?"
I forced a smile over my shoulder, already moving down the hallway.
The music got quieter the farther I walked from the dressing room.
The carpet swallowed the sound of my steps, but my pulse filled in the silence just fine.
I kept my head down, eyes on the familiar hallway, passing the framed black-and-white photos, the flickering wall sconce that had never worked right.
Private room.
Ten thousand.
Brooks.
I didn't know what I was walking into. The last time we were alone, it felt... charged. Complicated. But not in a way I could name. Now he was back, buying the fantasy again—but for what?
The hallway curved, and I saw the door already slightly ajar. A soft glow spilled out from it. Not the usual neon or dim corner-lamp. Something warmer.
I pushed the door open slowly.
And stopped.
The room was filled with roses.
Red. Every surface dressed in them. Bouquets on the side table. Loose petals scattered across the velvet couch. A few had even fallen onto the floor, like they didn't know where else to go.
The air smelled sweet and thick, like the inside of a flower shop the week before Valentine's.
And there he was.
Brooks.
Sitting on the couch, relaxed but watching the door like he'd been waiting for me the whole time.
"Hey," he said softly. He flashed me a smile.
I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me.
My surroundings surprising me.
"You're crazy," I looked around.
I took an unintentional step back, still wide-eyed. I looked at him. All of him.
He was tall—at least six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out the clean lines of his suit like it was tailored just for him.
The dark fabric clung to him in all the right ways, structured but soft, like money and discretion had shaken hands.
His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, collar relaxed just enough to suggest comfort without carelessness.
His skin held a warm tan, a natural flush beneath the light stubble on his sharp jaw.
His lips, slightly parted, looked like they always had something just on the edge of a smile.
But it was his eyes that slowed me down—light, maybe grey or blue, depending on how the light hit. Bright, but not cold. Curious. Like he was seeing me and reading me at the same time.
He stepped forward again, but slower this time, his hands in his pockets.
"I don't think I've ever gotten a reaction like that from someone," he repeated, voice low and smooth, but not in a rehearsed way. It was the kind of voice that felt like a secret. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous in how gentle it was.
"You filled a whole room with roses," I said, trying not to smile, still glancing around. "You don't think that deserves a reaction?"
He tilted his head, smiling wider now. "Depends on the kind of reaction I was hoping for."
There it was. That charm. It wasn't loud. It didn't beg. It just lingered.
He felt like the kind of man your grandma would serve sweet tea to on the porch. The kind who'd shake your father's hand and look him in the eye. But I wasn't naive enough to believe that made him safe.
"I almost forgot you were even coming tonight," I admitted, arms folded now—not cold, just cautious.
"Then I guess I did something right," he said.
And when he looked at me like that—eyes soft, voice smooth, that smile just a little crooked—I hated how easy it was to want to believe him.
I gave a small shrug. "I'll give you that. I didn't expect this."
He nodded, slow, hands still in his pockets. "Good. That was the point."
I let my eyes move over the room again—roses everywhere, like he had something to prove but didn't know how to say it out loud. "You always go this big?"
"No," he said. "Just when I want to make an impression."
I raised an eyebrow, but didn't press it.
He sat back down on the couch, one arm draped casually over the side, like he was inviting me to sit without actually saying it. I stayed standing.
"You look good, by the way," he added, quieter this time. "I mean—you always do. But tonight... you walked in smiling. I noticed."
I didn't mean to, but I smiled again. Just a little. "I had a good day."
"That right?" he asked. "What happened?"
I paused, weighing how much I wanted to give him. "Nothing big. Just... sometimes things line up a little in your head and you let yourself feel hopeful."
Brooks nodded like he understood that completely. "That's rare. You should hold on to it."
Something about the way he said it made me look at him longer. He didn't push. Didn't fill the silence just to hear himself talk.
"Why do you really keep coming back?" I asked, finally. "It's not the dancing. I know that."
He smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "I don't know. I just... kept thinking about you. That night."
I crossed my arms gently, not defensive, just holding myself. "You didn't strike me as the sentimental type."
"I'm not."
"So then?"
"I think I liked talking to you," he said simply. "That doesn't happen often."
That shut me up for a moment. Not because it was some grand romantic confession—but because he said it like it was the truest thing he had.
We sat in that for a moment. Not awkward. Just... suspended.
Then his tone shifted a little, easy again.
"What's your number for the night?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Your goal," he said. "Everyone's got one, don't they?"
I hesitated. "Three."
He smiled. "Three hundred?"
I looked at him flatly.
He laughed. "Okay, okay. Three thousand."
I gave a small nod.
He leaned forward just slightly. "Then I'd say you've already made it."
My heart thudded once.
"Come with me," he said, softer now. "Let's get out of here. Just for a little while."
He didn't say it like a man trying to buy something. There was no bargaining in his tone. No arrogance. Just... curiosity. Maybe loneliness. Maybe both.
I thought about saying no. Not because I didn't want to. But because I wasn't sure what I wanted from him. He was always blurring the line—between real and pretend, between sweet and performative.
But tonight... I felt different.
Hopeful.
Focused.
And for once, it didn't feel like I was going with him because I needed to escape something.
It felt like I was choosing.
So I straightened up, smoothed my hands over the front of my outfit, and nodded once.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's go."
He stood slowly, like he didn't want to startle the moment. Then, without touching me, he opened the door.
And I followed him out—still not sure what came next.
But not afraid of it either.