thirty
I woke up to warmth. Not sunlight or blankets or anything gentle like that—but the solid heat of someone's chest beneath my cheek.
Brooks.
His arm was still wrapped around me, the weight of it grounding and heavy, like he hadn't moved all night.
I blinked slowly, unsure of how much time had passed.
The room was dim, the blackout curtains still drawn, casting the space in that soft gray-blue light that made it feel like the world was still asleep.
I was still naked.
I shifted slightly, just enough to register the feel of sheets against my bare legs, the sweat-cooled cling of skin against skin. Brooks, on the other hand, was fully dressed. Same shirt, same pants. He must've never changed.
For a moment, I just looked at him.
His jaw was slack in sleep, mouth parted just enough to soften the angles of his face. One hand rested on my waist, the other loosely curled near his chest. He looked peaceful. Tired. Human in a way I didn't always get to see.
Then his phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence so suddenly I jumped.
Brooks stirred beneath me, his brow creasing as he reached for the nightstand. I rolled back slightly, letting him shift, the blankets dragging across my bare body. I grabbed a pillow and pulled it against my chest, more for comfort than modesty.
"Yeah?" His voice was low and groggy, still half-asleep.
A beat of silence passed. Then he sat up a little straighter, rubbing his eyes.
"Samantha?" he repeated, confused but not alarmed. "Yeah, that's fine. Send her up."
The call ended, and he dropped the phone back onto the mattress with a quiet thud.
I blinked at him.
"Who was that?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out, a loud knock echoed through the apartment.
I flinched.
The sound was sharp and jarring against the stillness of the morning, and for a second, I was thrown off—my body still recovering from the night before, my nerves raw and stretched thin.
Brooks leaned over and kissed my forehead. "It's okay. I'll get it."
He got out of bed and headed toward the stairs, his movements quiet but unhurried.
I stayed frozen for a moment, the pillow still clutched to my chest.
Samantha.
The name rattled around in my brain, but I couldn't quite connect it to anything urgent. I was too foggy. Too raw. It was like my body hadn't caught up to the day yet. The ringing of his phone, the knock at the door—it all felt like noise I wasn't ready to process.
I swung my legs out from the covers, standing slowly.
My skin felt dry and tight from the shower last night, and I was still sore in places I hadn't even noticed until I started moving again. Every step felt like I was dragging myself back into reality, piece by piece.
The closet was quiet and cool.
I pulled on a pair of leggings and a soft T-shirt—one of Brooks's, oversized and worn. It fell past my hips and still smelled faintly like him. I didn't bother with underwear. My hair was still damp in places, clinging to the sides of my face.
I was just about to walk out of the room when Brooks called my name.
I answered. "Yeah?"
"Hey," he said, voice a little tighter now, "Sam's here."
My Sam.
I froze in place, staring at the floor.
"She—she's here?"
"Yeah. She's downstairs."
"I'm coming," I said quickly.
I took a breath and stepped into the hallway, bare feet padding softly down the stairs.
The voices came into focus before I turned the corner. Sam's voice. Tight. Sharper than usual.
"She hasn't answered her phone all night," she was saying. "Do you know how many times I called her?"
I rounded the corner.
Brooks was standing near the entryway, arms loosely crossed, posture calm but alert like he was monitoring the situation. Sam was just inside the door, still in leggings and sneakers, her hoodie slung half-off her shoulder like she'd gotten dressed in a hurry.
Her eyes snapped to mine the moment I came into view.
I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, she cut in.
"Amira," she said, her voice strangled. "What the fuck."
She didn't sound mad. Not really. It was something else—raw, tight, tangled with panic. Her eyes searched mine like she didn't know whether to hug me or strangle me.
I froze on the last step.
"I—" I started, but I didn't know where to begin.
She moved toward me, fast. "Why didn't you answer your phone? I called you. I texted you. I even DM'd you. Mya called me saying you were frantic."
I blinked. "She called you?"
"Yes," Sam snapped. "Because she was worried. And now I'm here and you're just—"
Her eyes flicked over me. At the oversized shirt. The red around my eyes. The state of me.
She took a breath, exhaling it slowly. "Sorry," she muttered. "I just—I need a second."
I glanced at Brooks, who hadn't moved, but whose expression was unreadable.
"Can you give us a minute?" I asked, gently.
He nodded, already backing up. "Of course. I'll be upstairs."
I watched him go, unsure what I wanted more—his presence or his distance.
Once he disappeared up the stairs, I turned back to Sam.
She was already reaching for me.
"I thought something happened," she said, arms pulling me into a tight, grounding hug. "I was about to start calling hospitals."
I hugged her back. My chin trembled against her shoulder.
"I'm okay," I said, voice small.
She pulled back just enough to look at me. "Are you?"
I didn't answer right away. I couldn't.
Her eyes narrowed a little. "Was it about the Instagram photos? I texted you as soon as I saw them."
"I know. I saw your message. I just..." I looked away. "I needed space to figure out how I felt before I could talk about it. I should've told you that."
She nodded slowly, processing. "Okay. That's fair."
"Brooks told me about them and it's just PR stuff."
She crossed her arms, still watching me closely. "So what happened?"
I swallowed hard. "Can we sit?"
We moved to the couch. I perched on the edge, hands clenched in my lap. Sam sat beside me, close but patient.
I took a breath. "There was a man at the club."
Her entire body went still.
"He asked for me. In a private room. I didn't recognize him at first, but then I did. We had like a really brief interaction at the gala I went to a few weeks ago, I don't know if you remember."
"The one by the bar you said was acting weird?"
I nodded.
"He remembered me. Said he'd been thinking about me. Then he showed me footage—of me and Brooks. From this social club in the pool."
Sam's jaw dropped.
"He had a surveillance video?"
I nodded again. "He said he'd leak it and just a whole bunch of other shit."
Sam's expression darkened. "What the hell?"
"And then..." I paused, voice catching. "He tried to forces himself on me, grabbed me by my arm and my neck."
Her face twisted, horrified. "What?!"
"That's why I looked so frantic to Mya and the girls because when I got out I just wanted to grab my stuff and leave."
Sam leaned back, her mouth falling open. "Amira."
"I know."
"I don't even—how do you even begin to process that?"
"I don't think I have," I whispered.
She was quiet for a long time. Then, gently, "Did you tell Brooks?"
I nodded. "Eventually. Last night. I kind of... broke down."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm glad he was here."
I glanced away. "Yeah."
A pause.
"But I don't like this."
My head snapped back. "What?"
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't snap. She just looked at me, like she'd been holding something in for too long.
"I don't like what this relationship is doing to you."
I blinked. "Sam—"
"I'm not saying I hate him. I don't even know him. But you're not okay. You haven't been for weeks."
"That's not fair—"
"No. What's not fair is that you're walking around with bruises on your neck from some creep who only had access to you because of who you're dating."
I fell silent.
She softened, just a little. "You're spiraling. You keep trying to hold everything together, but you're scared all the time. You think I haven't noticed?"
"I'm not scared of him."
"I know you're not," she said. "But you're scared of everything that comes with him."
She wasn't wrong.
I looked at her, voice shaking. "I love him."
She nodded. "I know."
"I'm moving to New Jersey."
The words felt enormous coming out, like I was saying them for the first time out loud—even to myself.
Sam blinked. "Wait. What?"
I sat up straighter, my heartbeat loud in my ears. "I told him last night I don't want to go back to the club and he said okay."
She stared at me. "So... you're moving in with him?"
"I think so."
A long pause settled between us, thick with hesitation.
"I don't love that," she said finally, and there was no anger in her voice—just honest worry.
"I know."
"It's not even him, really. It's just—everything else. This whole life of his, Amira... it's big and you've already been through so much."
Sam's expression didn't budge. "No, we talked about it with you setting the terms. Moving out of Philly, starting fresh, building something that's yours. But this?" She shook her head. "This doesn't feel like that."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, Amira—you're my best friend. I think you deserve the world and then some. And I know you'll get it, I know you will. But I'm sorry, this doesn't sound like you right now."
"Sam—"
"You're uprooting your whole life to be a background character in his." Her voice cracked slightly. "You say it's not about him, but come on. What about you? What about the life you want and deserve?"
"I am thinking about myself," I shot back, more defensive than I meant to sound. "I'm thinking about my peace. I'm thinking about not walking into work every night and hating that that's what I have to do every night."
"Since when do you hate dancing, Amira? That's never been how you've talked about it. Not until him."
I swallowed. "You keep putting the blame on Brooks, this isn't about him."