twenty six #2
He pulled away from the curb, the engine rumbling low.
"Sorry It hasn't been resolved yet," he said after a block. "I was on the phone with Samir, trying to get ahead of whatever narrative they're building."
I didn't ask who Samir was. I didn't have the energy to pretend I didn't already know-his campaign manager, the one who called me "the liability" the first time he Brooks mentioned me to him and he thought I wasn't listening.
"It's fine," I said.
"It's not," he countered, voice quiet but firm. "I don't want you to feel like you have to hide."
"But that's what this is," I said softly. "Hiding."
His jaw tightened. "It's about protecting you."
I didn't answer.
We passed under a bridge, the headlights slanting over the graffiti tagging the underpass. For a second, the car was swallowed in shadow.
When we emerged on the other side, he reached across the console, his palm landing warm and heavy over my knee.
"I'm serious," he murmured. "I don't care what they say about me, but you don't deserve to have your life picked apart."
His thumb traced a slow arc against my jeans. I turned my face toward the window. My reflection stared back-pale, tired, a little hollow.
We rode like that for another ten minutes, the silence growing roots in the space between us. My heart was beating steady but uneasy, like it already knew I was about to cross a line I couldn't uncross.
I waited until he merged onto the highway, the city lights falling away behind us.
"Brooks," I said quietly.
His thumb paused its slow circle over my knee. "Yeah?"
"Can we..." I swallowed. "Can we go see it?"
He didn't pretend not to know what I meant.
"The house?"
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a second, but I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"Are you sure?" he asked carefully.
"No."
But I didn't take it back.
He didn't say anything else. He just shifted lanes and took the next exit, the turn signal clicking steady and sure in the hush of the cabin.
We drove in silence. The houses on either side of the road grew bigger and farther apart. Lawns the size of small parks. Tall fences and quiet security lights.
I curled my fingers into the hem of my coat and tried to pretend I wasn't shaking.
The car slowed in front of a set of gates, simple black iron without any sign or plaque. Brooks leaned forward to key in a code on a small backlit pad.
The gates swung open soundlessly.
My chest felt too tight.
He pulled up the drive, easing the car to a stop in front of a long, low-slung house that looked like something out of a magazine-stone and glass and soft-lit windows. A place that felt impossible for someone like me to belong in.
He didn't turn off the engine.
I didn't unbuckle my seatbelt.
"Want to go in?" he asked after a minute.
I closed my eyes. "I don't know."
"You don't have to."
"Then why are we here?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Because you asked," he said finally.
I looked at him, really looked. The way the dash lights painted his profile in soft blue. The way his hand rested loose on the gearshift, like he was trying not to spook me.
"Will you..." I said quietly.
He nodded, once.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Of course."
He climbed out first. I stayed frozen another moment before opening my door.
The night air smelled like cold grass and faint salt-like the ocean wasn't too far away.
He waited for me by the front steps.
When I reached him, he didn't touch me. Just looked down at me with that quiet steadiness he always pulled out when he thought I was close to bolting.
He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let me in first.
The entryway was all clean lines and pale wood floors. A long runner led into an open living space-vaulted ceilings, huge windows with black frames, a fireplace that looked like no one had ever used it.
I stepped inside, feeling the hush of it settle over me.
It smelled faintly like fresh paint and something more expensive I didn't have a name for.
He didn't rush me.
I walked slow circles around the living room, touching nothing.
"This is the kitchen," he said behind me, his voice low and careful. "It's all new. Appliances, fixtures."
I glanced back at him. He looked as out of place here as I did-his hands shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders tense.
"Upstairs are the bedrooms," he went on, softer now. "Three. And an office."
"An office," I echoed, hollow.
I didn't trust my voice to answer.
I moved toward the window. My reflection looked small in the dark glass, the city lights far enough away that I couldn't see them anymore.
"It's too nice," I whispered.
He came to stand beside me, not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
"It's what you deserve," he said quietly.
I swallowed. My hands felt cold.
"And if this doesn't work?" I asked, still staring at our reflections.
"Then it doesn't," he said, his voice as steady as I'd ever heard it.
I closed my eyes.
"Amira."
I didn't look at him.
"Look at me," he murmured.
I did, because I always did.
His gaze held mine-steady, searching.
"This isn't about hiding you," he said. "It's about trying to give you something better. Giving our relationship something better while it still has a chance."
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to believe him so bad.
But all I could see was everything I might lose if I let myself.
"I'm not ready," I said, my voice small.
He nodded, like he'd expected that.