eight #2
We followed the path in silence for a bit, gravel crunching softly beneath our steps. The air smelled like cut grass and something floral—maybe the big white hydrangea bush we passed at the gate. Brooks carried the little pastry box in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his coat pocket.
"This is really nice," I murmured, glancing around. "I didn't even know this place stayed open."
He looked over at me. "It doesn't. The park just never really closes. The city kind of trusts you to behave."
I let out a quiet laugh. "That's a lot of trust."
We reached a curved wooden bench tucked beneath a tree. He gestured toward it, and I sat, smoothing my hand over the back of the seat before settling in. The wood was cool, a little damp from the evening air. He sat beside me, careful not to crowd.
He opened the box and set it between us. The cannoli were perfect—still crisp, with cream piped to the ends like a movie prop. I reached for one, careful not to make a mess, but powdered sugar dusted my sweatpants anyway.
Brooks watched me like I was a little surprising.
"What?"
"Nothing. You just... don't talk a lot, but when you do, it's good. Like you say exactly what you mean."
I licked a bit of sugar from my thumb and shrugged. People always made comments about how little I talk. I think it was something I just adapted to over time or always being alone. "I prefer listening."
I watched him pick up his lemon bar and take a small bite, eyes steady on mine. I studied the way he carried himself—relaxed, but careful. That watch glinted again in the lamplight.
I let a beat pass, then cleared my throat. "So... you said you work in finance?"
He nodded, wiping powdered sugar from his fingertip with a napkin. "Mmhmm. Investment consulting."
"Right," I said, chewing slowly. "So... what's your take on market correction?"
He paused just long enough for me to notice.
Then smiled like I'd just played my first chess move.
"Depends on what kind of correction you mean," he said smoothly. "Long-term macro or investor sentiment?"
I arched an eyebrow. "You tell me."
He leaned back on the bench, resting an ankle on one knee.
"Alright. If we're talking macro, I think people are bracing for a shift that won't come the way they expect it. Everyone's waiting for the crash, but the correction might just be inflation leveling and rates settling lower. It's less dramatic than people want it to be."
He glanced at me. "But... if I were a guy trying to sound smart and impress you, I'd say it's a storm coming, and only the well-advised will survive."
I held his gaze, a little caught off guard by how easily it rolled out.
"Okay," I said slowly. "You passed."
"Was it a test?"
"Maybe."
He smiled wider, then looked up toward the branches above us. "You test everyone?"
"Not everyone. Just the ones who claim they're in finance but has a driver who takes them around in cream leather SUVs with monogrammed headrests."
He let out a laugh. "That's fair."
We sat for a while, quietly picking at our desserts. The wind picked up a little and rustled the leaves above. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, muffled and far-off, like a reminder the real world was still out there.
Brooks leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, box closed beside him.
"You always this cautious?" he asked gently.
I didn't look at him right away. "It's a habit. I'm still trying to get a read on you."
He didn't try to refute it. Didn't try to reassure me either. He just sat with it.
"I get that," he said eventually.
I looked at him then. "What are you trying to do? I mean like what are we doing here?"
He smiled, not cocky—just quiet.
"Get to know you. If that's allowed."
I let the silence stretch between us like a rope, then nodded once.
"For now," I said. "It's allowed."
His smile flickered into something softer. "Good."
The breeze picked up again, and I pulled his jacket a little tighter around my shoulders without thinking.
It smelled like cedar and something warm underneath. Like a house that stays clean even when no one's coming over.
"Did you want your jacket back?" I asked sitting up preparing to shrug it off.
He shook his head, "I'm fine. Looks better on you than me."
I looked over at him and playfully rolled my eyes. "I think that might've been the corniest thing you've said all night."
He laughed.
After a moment, Brooks leaned back, his arm resting loosely along the back of the bench, not touching me—but close. "So where are you from, Amira?"
I glanced at him, pretending to think even though I already knew the version of the answer I was going to give. "New York."
He nodded. "Do you have family out here with you too?"
I hesitated just a second too long. "My mom's... around."
I didn't offer more, and he didn't push. Instead, he just nodded again like he heard what I didn't say.
I reached for the last half of my cannoli. "What about you?"
He grinned like he caught me mid-deflection but let it slide. "Grew up here. Went away for school. Came back."
I chewed slowly, then asked, "Where do you live?"
"Not far," he said, casually. "Couple blocks that way."
I raised a brow. "That way" was east—wealthy and quiet.
"What about you?" he asked, turning the question back gently. "Where's home?"
"South Side," I said, then shrugged.
He nodded like he already knew that. "You like it?"
"It's loud," I said. "And messy. But I don't mind it."
Something about the way I said it made him look at me a little longer than before. I didn't look away this time.
The last of the cannoli was gone. The box sat closed between us, the night settling deeper into the trees. The park had thinned out, most people gone home or tucked into corners of the city we didn't belong to.
I rubbed my hands together lightly, brushing powdered sugar from my fingertips. "It's late."
"Yeah," he said, looking down at his watch. "It is."
He didn't rush the moment. Just let it linger, like he was waiting to see what I wanted to do next.
"I could have Monte take you home," he offered, voice soft.
I looked over at him, weighing something in my head.
"You tired yet?"
I looked over. "Not really."
It surprised me a little, even saying it. I should have been tired. But my body didn't feel ready to shut down. If anything, I felt... still. Alert, in a way that didn't have anything to do with caffeine or sugar.
There was a pause, then:
"You want to come back to mine?" he asked, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "I'm not tired either I've been enjoying talking to you."
He didn't sound like he was expecting anything. Just... offering. And somehow, that made it feel easier to say yes.
I didn't answer right away. Just watched the way the lamplight softened the edges of his face, made the night feel a little less cold.
Eventually, I stood. "Sure."
He rose, picking up the box.
Neither of us said much as we walked back out of the park. The city was quiet, that in-between time where the nightlife fades and the early risers haven't stirred yet.
I didn't know what was going to happen.
But I wasn't tired yet. And for now, that was enough.
Monte had the car already pulled around by the curb, headlights off like he knew not to ruin the quiet. We climbed in, and the ride was silent again—but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that felt earned.