twenty four #2
"I can't lose you over this," he said quietly.
I swallowed. My voice was small. "I don't know if we can pretend this isn't something we're going to have to deal with."
"I'm not pretending," he said. "I know what she did. I know how it made you feel. But I also know this isn't about them. It's about us. And only we get to decide what that means."
A part of me wanted to believe him so badly it almost hurt.
But another part-the one that had spent years learning how easily people could turn on you-kept whispering that wanting him didn't make me any less disposable.
"You don't have to say that," I said softly.
He searched my face. "I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."
His expression was bare, stripped of any arrogance or certainty. Just a man asking for something he didn't know if he deserved.
And the worst part-the part that made my heart twist-was that I wanted to stay.
I wanted to believe him.
"...Okay," I breathed.
Relief flickered across his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He let out a slow exhale and rested his forehead against mine.
For a while, we just stood there, breathing the same quiet air. Pretending nothing outside this moment could touch us.
Later, we ended up in his bed.
He made tea, though neither of us drank it. The mugs sat cooling on the table while he told me about some donor he didn't want to see.
I told him about a customer at the club who'd asked if I was seeing anyone and how I'd almost lied.
Little stories. Harmless ones.
Anything to fill the spaces where the bigger, scarier truths lived.
When I fell quiet, he reached over and took my hand.
"I know this is a lot," he said softly.
I swallowed. "It is."
"But I don't regret any of it."
My throat felt too tight to speak.
"I meant what I said," he went on. "You're not a mistake. You're not something I'm ashamed of."
I blinked hard. "You say that now."
"I'll say it tomorrow," he promised. "And the day after that."
I looked away, but he lifted my chin until I had to meet his eyes.
"You don't have to believe me yet," he said. "But I'm not going anywhere."
I nodded, even though I didn't know if I believed him.
He squeezed my hand once, then let it go.
"I'll grab you something to sleep in."
When he came back with a t-shirt and shorts, I took them with a murmured thanks and disappeared into the bathroom.
When I came out, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, watching me.
I hesitated in the doorway.
He looked up, his expression open in a way that made my chest ache.
I crawled into the bed first, sliding under the covers. He turned off the light and settled in beside me, close but not touching.
The silence was almost comfortable.
Almost.
I turned to face him, my voice small in the dark. "This is scary."
"I know," he murmured.
I swallowed. "I don't know how to do this."
"We'll figure it out."
He shifted closer, one arm curling around my waist.
And this time, I didn't resist.
I woke up to the soft weight of his arm draped over my waist.
For a second, I didn't remember where I was.
The sheets were softer than mine. The air smelled faintly like cedar and clean linen. The early light creeping past the blackout curtains glowed pale against the walls.
I lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, while the shape of it settled around me.
Brooks.
His hand shifted against my hip, warm and real.
I could have stayed like that forever-pretending it was enough to just be here, to be wanted.
But some part of me, small and tired, already knew it wasn't going to last.
He stirred behind me, his breath brushing the back of my neck.
"Hey," he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.
"Hey."
His arm tightened, pulling me a little closer.
"You sleep at all?"
"Some," I lied.
He didn't call me on it. Just pressed his forehead to my shoulder and breathed out slow, like he didn't want to let go.
I wished I could have frozen us in that moment-before the day started, before the world came crashing back in.
Before I had to remember I wasn't built for this life.
I was still staring at the ceiling when he pulled back and propped himself up on one elbow.
"You want coffee?"
"Yeah," I said softly.
He kissed my temple and slipped out of bed.
I listened to the quiet sounds of him in the kitchen-cupboards opening, water running.
My chest ached.
Because as much as I wanted to believe this was simple-just a man and a woman trying to figure it out-I knew it wasn't.
I'd spent the whole night telling myself it could be real. That maybe we were stronger than the story his mother was already writing about us.
But in the daylight, I wasn't sure.
Maybe I was just proving her right.
Maybe this was always going to end with me sitting alone in my apartment, wondering why I ever thought I could be more than a distraction.
When he came back, he handed me a mug, then sat on the edge of the mattress.
I watched the steam curl up in the space between us.
Neither of us said anything for a long time.
Finally, he looked up. His eyes were clearer than they'd been the night before, but there was still something tired in them.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"You already said that."
"I know," he admitted. "But I don't think it's enough."
I didn't answer.
Because part of me wanted to tell him it wasn't about his apology-that no amount of sorry could make me forget the way she'd looked at me.
And another part was afraid if I said it out loud, he'd realize it too.
He reached over, his thumb brushing a spot just above my knee.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to disappear," he said quietly.
"I don't," I lied.
His mouth curved in a sad, knowing way. "You think you're protecting me."
"I think I'm being realistic," I whispered.
His jaw flexed. "We can be realistic together."
I wanted to believe him. But some part of me still felt like I was waiting for the moment he'd decide it was easier to let me go than to keep fighting for something we weren't supposed to have.
We drank our coffee in silence.
At some point, I set mine aside and pulled my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
I felt like I was balancing on the edge of something I didn't have a name for.
Something that was only going to get worse before it got better.
His phone started buzzing on the nightstand.
I didn't have to ask who it was.
Brooks closed his eyes, exhaled.
When he picked up, his voice was clipped. "Yeah."
A pause.
"No, she's here."
I felt my stomach flip.
"Because she wanted to be," he said, softer.
Another pause.
"I'm not doing this over the phone," he said finally, voice turning firm.
I looked down at my hands, heart hammering.
He sighed. "Fine. We'll come by."
When he set the phone down, he didn't say anything right away.
"Let me guess," I managed, my voice thin. "Your mother."
His eyes met mine, apology written all over them. "She and my dad want to talk."
I swallowed, my mouth dry. "Of course they do."
"She wants to see both of us," he said quietly.
My heart felt like it was trying to crawl up my throat.
"When?"
"Today."
I tried to breathe around the tightness in my chest. "Of course."
He reached for my hand, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles.
"You don't have to be scared of them," he murmured.
"I'm not scared of them."
"Then what?"
I looked down at our joined hands. "I'm scared of being stupid enough to believe this was ever going to be different."
His breath left him in a ragged exhale. "Amira-"
"I'm scared of thinking I'm more than I am," I whispered.
"You are more."
My voice cracked. "You don't know that."
He cupped my jaw, tilting my face up. "I do."
I closed my eyes.
Because if I looked at him too long, I was going to fall all over again.
And I wasn't sure I could survive it.
He kissed my forehead and stood.
"I'm going to grab you something to wear."
I nodded without speaking.
The clothes he brought back were simple-black trousers and a pale blouse that looked like it belonged to another life.
I took them into the bathroom and changed, my hands shaking the whole time.
When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn't recognize myself.
Like I was dressed up to audition for a part I didn't even want.
I swallowed, turned away.
When I came out, he was standing by the window, hands in his pockets.
He turned, his gaze running over me in a way that was gentle, but somehow made me feel even more like I didn't belong here.
"You look beautiful," he said.
I didn't feel beautiful.
I felt like I was about to be dissected.
"Thanks," I whispered.
He crossed the room and took my hand.
"Whatever happens today," he murmured, "I'm with you."
I wanted to tell him I believed him.
But all I could do was nod.
The drive to his parents' house was quiet.
I watched the city drift by outside the window, my reflection in the glass pale and unfamiliar.
By the time we turned onto a long, winding drive flanked by old trees and white fences, my heart was in my throat.
The house itself was huge-red brick, elegant columns, the kind of place you saw in magazines.
Perfect. Untouched.
Like nothing messy ever happened inside.
Brooks parked and turned to me, his expression careful.
"You ready?"
"No," I whispered.
His mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I got you."
He reached over, his fingers brushing mine.
Then he opened the door, and the cool morning air rushed in, carrying all the things I didn't know how to say.
The front door opened before we reached it.
His father stood there in a charcoal suit, hands clasped in front of him, as composed as the last time I'd seen him on TV.
"Brooks," he said, his voice calm. "Thank you for coming."
Brooks inclined his head but didn't smile. "Dad."
Then his father's gaze shifted to me, steady and assessing.
"You must be Amira."
My mouth felt dry. "Yes. Hi."