twenty one
"Yeah. I'll look it over in the morning."
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, one hand braced on the marble. His tie was gone. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the warm line of his throat.
Even like this-hair mussed, voice low and tired-he still looked like the version of himself everyone else saw. The one who had it all together.
I wondered if he ever felt like he didn't.
He glanced over, caught me watching, and his mouth curved just a little. Not quite a smile-just that soft flicker he saved for me.
"Yeah," he said into the phone, tone still patient. "We'll finalize the talking points before the event. I appreciate it."
He listened for another moment, nodding once, before he finally hung up.
"Everything good?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. "Yeah. Only a million small fires."
I watched him cross the room-bare feet silent on the polished floor-and when he reached me, he touched a hand to my hip. Just a gentle weight.
"What about you?" he asked quietly. "Long day?"
"Not really." I picked at a loose thread on my shorts. "Just...a lot of thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"Mm." I looked up at him, feeling something in my chest ease. "You hungry?"
He hesitated. "A little."
"I can make something," I offered.
His thumb brushed the curve of my waist. "I would love if you did, if you're up for it."
"I dont mind."
It felt good, in some small, ordinary way, to take care of him.
I slipped past him into the kitchen, opening the fridge to see what he'd bothered to keep stocked this week.
I pulled everything out and set it on the counter. When I turned, Brooks was still standing there, watching me like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help.
"You can sit," I told him, raising a brow. "You look exhausted."
He didn't argue. Just dragged one of the tall stools closer and settled onto it, elbows braced on the counter. His eyes tracked me as I moved around the kitchen, filling a pot with water, searching cabinets for a pan.
When I turned again, he was still smiling at me-small and tired and real in a way that made something warm twist low in my belly.
I set the pot on the stove and twisted the burner on. "You're just gonna sit there?"
"Mm." He leaned his cheek on his palm. "I like watching you."
My face went warm. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you look like that." I waved a hand vaguely at his undone shirt, the soft fall of hair across his forehead. "And it's distracting."
"Good," he said, voice low.
I shook my head, turning back to the stove so he wouldn't see the way I was smiling.
The water started to bubble. I tipped the pasta in and gave it a slow stir, the wooden spoon warm in my hand. My heart hadn't stopped its quiet, unsteady flutter since he touched me.
"You want to keep watching our show?" I asked.
"You mean your show that you're rewatching for the millionth time."
A different world had always been a comfort show for me and I watched it atleast twice a year since I was probably twelve.
"I thought you said you liked it," I pouted.
I reached for the little remote on the counter, tapping through a few channels until I landed on the netflix icon-Whitney's voice soon coming through the speaker.
Behind me, Brooks let out a quiet exhale, like the tension was bleeding out of his shoulders inch by inch.
"We should go on a trip," he said after a moment.
"To where?"
"Anywhere you haven't been before."
I glanced back at him, "That would be fun."
I busied myself with grating the cheese so I wouldn't have to say anything. The sound of the grater scraping the cutting board filled the hush between us.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then I felt him move-heard the soft scrape of the stool as he stood. A beat later, his hands came around my waist, warm palms splaying low over my stomach.
My breath caught.
"I thought you were sitting," I managed.
"Changed my mind."
He pressed in closer, his chest a solid heat against my back. "I wanted to see if you'd let me help."
"With pasta?" I asked, my voice thin.
"With anything," he murmured.
I set the grater down, letting my hands rest over his. "You can help by not making me burn everything because you're distracting me."
"I'm not doing anything," he protested, but his thumbs stroked slow circles over my ribs.
"You're doing plenty."
He dipped his head, mouth brushing the side of my throat. He kissed me there-soft, then a little harder, just enough pressure to make me lean back into him.
The pasta water hissed and spit, reminding me we weren't alone in this perfect little bubble. I swallowed hard, turning just enough to see his face.
"Five more minutes," I whispered.
His smile was slow. "I can wait."
I eased out of his hold-though it cost me something-and reached for the skillet. Poured in a drizzle of olive oil, a little garlic. The scent lifted up warm and rich.
Behind me, Brooks traced the curve of my spine with one fingertip. Not demanding. Just there.
I bit back a smile and dropped the pasta into the skillet, tossing it gently. My pulse hadn't slowed in the slightest.
"You want to grab the plates?" I asked, tipping my chin toward the cabinet.
Brooks obeyed without comment, pulling down two white dishes and setting them on the counter. He moved close again-closer than he needed to be-and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of my jaw.
"Smells good."
"I know," I said, half-laughing. "Go sit down."
He didn't, not right away. Just lingered there, close enough that I could feel the slow rise and fall of his breath.
I spooned the pasta onto the plates, sprinkling the last of the parmesan over the top. When I turned, he was still watching me-dark-eyed, quiet in a way that felt almost reverent.
I rolled my eyes and nudged one plate into his hands. "Take it to the table."
He did as he was told, though he let his fingers brush mine as he took the dish.
I carried my own plate to the little round table near the windows. When I sat, he sank into the chair opposite, his knee brushing mine under the table.
For a few minutes, we ate in companionable quiet. The TB played low, the city glowing in the glass beyond.
Halfway through, Brooks set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, studying me.
Brooks reached across the table, his palm warm over my wrist. He didn't say anything else-just let his thumb trace small, grounding circles over my skin.
When we were finished, he stood and collected the plates without asking. I watched him at the sink, sleeves pushed up, hands steady under the warm water.
When he finished, he dried his hands and came back to me. He didn't speak, just tugged me gently out of the chair, one arm curling around my waist.
I tilted my face up, and he kissed me-slow, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was a hush against my cheek.
"Let's go lay down."
The words slipped out of him soft, almost tentative, like he wasn't sure I'd say yes.
But I did-because there wasn't any part of me that wanted to be anywhere else.
He didn't drop my hand as he turned toward the bedroom. He just threaded our fingers together, that steady pressure against my palm somehow more intimate than anything that had happened all night.
The walk down the hall felt longer than it should have. Like every step stretched out in some quiet, unspoken anticipation neither of us dared put a name to.
His thumb traced slow, absent shapes over the back of my hand as we moved past the closed doors. Past the little glimpses of his life that still felt too big for me-polished surfaces, framed photographs, the neat stack of books on the hallway console.
The bedroom was mostly dark when we stepped inside, the only light coming from the city beyond the windows. I paused just past the threshold, watching the skyline flicker across the floorboards in soft gold and blue.
Brooks squeezed my hand before letting it go. He walked to the side of the bed and tugged the covers back with that same quiet deliberation he did everything else. Like he was making space for me in a place he'd already decided I belonged.
"Come here," he said, voice low.
I didn't make him ask twice.
I climbed onto the mattress, the sheets cool under my palms, and let him ease me back against the pillows.
For a moment, neither of us moved. He just stood there, looking down at me in the soft spill of city light, his hair falling across his forehead, his mouth a little unsure.
Then he exhaled and joined me, one arm sliding under my shoulders to draw me close.
I rested my cheek against his chest, breathing in the faint, clean smell of his soap.
And in that hush, with the warmth of him seeping into my skin, it felt-for the first time in days-like the rest of the world could wait.
His hand drifted up, fingertips tracing lightly over the back of my neck. "Feels like I haven't seen you in weeks," he murmured.
"You saw me this morning," I teased, voice muffled against his skin.
"Doesn't feel like it," he said, quiet.
We fell into an easy hush, the city noise drifting in-horns, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic.
After a while, he shifted onto his side, propping his head in his hand so he could look at me properly.
"You know something?" he said, studying my face.
"What?"
His thumb brushed the curve of my cheek, light and steady. "I feel like I know you so well and still...there's so much I don't."
I swallowed. "Like what?"
"Like...your family," he said gently. "Or the places you grew up. Things you did as a kid."
I looked at the ceiling. "We moved around a lot."
He didn't say anything-just waited, letting me decide if I wanted to keep going.
"You ever have anything you did every year?" I asked instead, my voice softer. "Family trips? Traditions?"