eleven
Soft and slow, stretching through the floor-to-ceiling windows like it had nowhere else to be.
I blinked up at the ceiling, the hush of the penthouse so different from the noise I was used to waking up to.
No traffic, no neighbors yelling through paper-thin walls.
Just stillness—and the weight of a blanket pulled halfway down my leg.
I hadn't meant to fall asleep there. On his couch. In his space. But once I sat down last night, once he leaned in and kissed me like he wasn't trying to win anything—just be there—I didn't want to go.
And maybe I didn't want to leave this moment either.
I shifted slightly, careful not to move too much. Brooks was behind me, breathing slow and steady, one arm draped along the back of the couch—not quite touching. There was something respectful about it. Or maybe he just didn't know if he could.
I turned just enough to see him. His face was softer when he slept—less composed. His mouth parted slightly, lashes heavy against his cheekbones. He looked like someone who didn't get a lot of sleep. Or didn't know how to rest even when he had the chance.
A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead. Without thinking, I reached up and brushed it back.
His eyes fluttered open.
For a second, he just looked at me. Like he wasn't sure if this was real.
"Morning," he said, voice low and rough.
"Morning."
A pause. Then he smiled—barely. "Didn't think you were gonna stay."
"I didn't either."
He nodded like that made sense.
"I didn't want to wake you," I added.
"You didn't."
I sat up a little, adjusting the blanket over my legs. The air in the room was cool, but not cold. That kind of expensive central air that didn't make a sound.
He sat up too, dragging a hand over his face, then through his hair.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked.
"Maybe in a bit."
We sat there for another moment, quiet again.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my waist—not because I was cold, but because mornings made everything feel more noticeable. More exposed. Like the silence between words meant more than it did the night before.
Brooks stood, his movements unhurried. "Alright," he said, stretching slightly. "I'm gonna make some."
He walked barefoot across the polished floor and down the steps to the kitchen, the hem of his tee lifting slightly as he reached into a cabinet. I watched him for a moment—the quiet confidence of it.
I didn't follow right away.
Instead, I leaned back into the couch and let the moment breathe.
The penthouse looked different in daylight. Less pristine. More lived-in. A faint ring from a glass on the counter. The bedroom door still closed. The soft hum of the city below, barely making it through the windows.
It didn't feel like a showroom anymore.
It felt like him.
He glanced over his shoulder. "You like it sweet or—?"
"Just cream."
I stood and padded over to the kitchen. He stood at the counter, watching the coffee drip slow into a matte-black carafe.
"What kind of machine is this?" I asked, eyeing the sleek, complicated buttons.
"One Leslie picked. I'm still figuring it out."
I smiled, surprised by how easy it was to imagine him struggling to brew coffee in a multi-million-dollar apartment.
"Is Leslie your sister?" I asked casually.
"No, I'm an only child," he said, glancing at me before turning back to the machine. "She's our house manager. Mostly works for my parents, but she helps out over here too."
My brows lifted slightly as I wandered over to the window.
"What kind of finance company do your parents run?" I asked, eyes on the skyline.
He hesitated. "They work with law firms."
"Finance for law firms?" I turned slightly toward him.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a vague nod.
He poured the coffee into two mugs—black for him, a splash of cream in mine.
I walked over to the counter and picked up my mug. Took a sip. Leaned back against the marble.
The warmth of it grounded me. Smooth ceramic. Steady heat.
Brooks leaned against the opposite counter, sipping his slowly, eyes on the view instead of me. I followed his gaze—downtown stretching wide and silver beneath the haze. From up here, the city almost looked manageable.
"You work today?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not till later."
He set his mug down, and for a second, I almost told him. About the suite. About Evelyn. About how the space felt like the first real thing I'd wanted in years.
But I didn't.
It wasn't about hiding it. It was just... mine. For now.
I took another sip, then said, "I should probably head out soon."
He nodded, unreadable. "I figured it was only a matter of time before you said that."
I let out a small laugh. "I've got stuff to do," I added, even though he didn't ask.
"Of course."
But he didn't move. Didn't rush me. Just stayed where he was—arms crossed, eyes back on the skyline like it was something he knew by heart.
I set my mug down gently.
"Thanks," I said.
He raised a brow. "Anytime."
I took that as my cue.
But not before brushing past him just a little too close on my way to grab my bag.
Just enough for him to feel it.
Just enough to let him wonder.
He didn't follow when I moved to grab my bag from the stool. Just watched me quietly, arms still folded, one shoulder resting against the counter.
I reached for the strap, slinging it over my shoulder, and turned toward the door.
"Amira."
I paused.
When I looked back, he wasn't leaning anymore.
He stepped forward—not rushed, not hesitant, just sure—and closed the space between us in two strides. His hand found my wrist gently, not to stop me, just to hold.
He was close enough now that I could see the green flecks in his eyes, the barely-there scar at the corner of his mouth. His other hand rose slowly to my cheek, fingertips brushing a curl back behind my ear.
"If this is too much, say so."
I didn't.
So he kissed me.
Soft at first—just the bare press of his mouth against mine. Like a question.
Then again, deeper this time, like an answer.
His hand stayed at my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. He tasted like coffee and quiet, like something familiar I hadn't felt in a long time.
I let myself lean in for just one second longer before pulling back, breath caught in my throat.
"I should go," I whispered.
"I know."
We stood like that for a beat—his forehead almost touching mine, my fingers still curled around the strap of my bag.
Then I stepped back.
He didn't try to stop me.
Didn't ask when he'd see me next.
Just gave a small, almost-smile and said, "Text me when you get home."
I nodded once, then turned for the door.
The soft click of it closing behind me sounded louder than I meant for it to.
But outside, the air felt different.
Brighter. Cooler. The city humming in the distance like it had always been there, waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was walking away from something.
Just toward whatever came next.
The moment I walked into my apartment, it felt smaller.
Not physically—just... compared to everything I'd felt in the past twenty-four hours. The stillness. The quiet. The way Brooks looked at me like I was more than some fantasy he'd dreamed up.
But this was real. The worn hardwood floors. The cracked tile in the bathroom. The cheap coffee I still hadn't replaced. My world.
I kicked off my shoes and picked the salon folder up carefully off the counter like it might bruise. The sunlight through the kitchen window hit the cover just right, casting a faint glow along the edge.
I could still see every inch of the space. The way the light moved across the floors. The way Evelyn spoke about her husband building the shelves with his own hands.
I sat down at the table and flipped it open.
Floor plans. Budget sheets. Her number, handwritten in the corner of a sticky note.
It felt fragile. Like if I touched it too hard, it would disappear.
I pulled my sketchpad from the drawer and opened it to the last page I worked on. Half-formed layout ideas. Mirror placements. A color palette of muted gold, cream, eucalyptus.
This dream wasn't new.
But for the first time, it didn't feel far away.
Still impossible, maybe. But closer. Almost... reachable.
I picked up my pen and started sketching again—not because I had the answers, but because I couldn't sit still. Because this wasn't just about getting out. It was about building something no one could take from me.
Something that had nothing to do with stilettos or stage names or who was watching from the VIP booth.
Just Amira.
And the version of me that still believed I could be more.
My phone buzzed again. Not a text this time—a call. I glanced over without thinking.
Aunt Lena.
I stared at the screen for a second. We didn't talk often, but her name always made something settle in me. Like a soft exhale.
She was the only person from my family I still kept in contact with.
I answered before it could go to voicemail.
"Hey," I said, surprised at how quiet my voice came out.
"Hi, baby," she said. Her tone was warm, familiar—like a soft blanket pulled over your shoulders when you didn't know you were cold. "You busy?"
"No," I said, easing into the chair by the window. "Not really. Just sketching."
She hummed. "You always were good with your hands. Drawing, braiding, painting—anything to make something prettier."
I smiled softly. "Trying to make it into something real."
"I bet you are," she said, a little proud. "I was thinking about you today. Thought I'd check in."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "I'm glad you did."
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable—just her giving me space.
"You doing okay?" she asked.
I let the question sit for a second. "Some days, yeah. Today's... one of the better ones."
"Good," she said gently. "That's all I want to hear. I know you don't always want to talk about everything—but I want you to know, I'm here. You don't have to go through it all alone."
"I know," I said, meaning it.