thirty-two
At first I thought he was just pulling me closer, but then he took my wrist gently, guiding my hand back until my palm pressed against the thick, hard length of him under the covers. Even half-asleep, I understood.
"Mmh." My voice was rough, lazy. My eyes opened halfway. "Brooks..." My voice came out rough, still thick with sleep.
"You feel that?" he murmured against my ear, his tone low enough to crawl under my skin.
"Mmh."
"That's what you do to me." His words vibrated against my neck as his lips brushed over it.
He rubbed my hand over him once, twice, before sliding his palm flat against my stomach and pulling me back into him. The heat of his body bled into mine. I could feel every inch of him pressed against me now, no mistaking what he wanted.
His mouth found the curve of my shoulder, teeth grazing lightly before kissing over the sting. "Roll over," he whispered.
I shifted to face him, and the look in his eyes woke me more than anything else could have. His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my skin before it drifted lower, tracing my throat, down between my breasts.
When I reached for him this time, he didn't stop me—his breath hitched when my fingers wrapped around him, hard and hot in my hand. "Fuck, Mira..."
He kissed me then, deep and unhurried, his hips pushing into my touch. The weight of him in my palm, the way his tongue slid against mine, made my stomach tighten.
His hand slipped down between my thighs, finding me already warm and ready for him. His fingers moved slow at first, coaxing me open, making me gasp into his mouth.
"You're soaked," he said, voice low and rough.
That was all it took. He rolled me onto my back, settling between my legs. The head of him pushed against me, slow enough to make me whimper. He kept his eyes on mine as he eased in, stretching me until my nails dug into his shoulders.
"God, you feel so good," he groaned, bottoming out and holding there for a heartbeat.
The rhythm started slow, deep, every push making the headboard knock softly against the wall. He kissed me between thrusts, his hand cradling the back of my head, the other gripping my thigh to keep me open for him.
The way he moved, the way his voice wrapped around me—it built and built until I was trembling under him, my body tightening around his.
"Fuck—just like that," he groaned, his rhythm stuttering as I came apart beneath him. A few more thrusts and he was gone too, pulling me flush against him as he spilled, his breath hot and uneven against my ear.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep, before finally easing out and pulling me onto his chest. His fingers traced slow circles on my back, his heartbeat still hard under my cheek. I let myself melt into him, eyes half-lidded, the smell of his skin filling my head.
"Stay like this a little longer," he murmured.
"I wasn't going anywhere."
The light had shifted by the time I sat up.
The thin winter sun poured through the wide bedroom windows, turning the rumpled sheets a muted gold.
My hair was a mess, his was worse, but neither of us cared.
The house was still and quiet in that way it only was before coffee, the air heavy with warmth from the radiator.
Brooks leaned back against the headboard, watching me with that half-smile that felt like a secret. "I'm leaving for D.C. tonight," he said, voice still rough from sleep.
I reached for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it around my shoulders. "For how long?"
"Just the day. My dad wants me at some policy dinners, and..." He trailed off with a sigh. "The election's close enough now that every handshake feels more important."
I nodded, my fingers curling in the blanket. I'd gotten used to these trips—used to watching him slip from our quiet world into his other one. But it still left an ache.
"I'll call you," he said, like he already knew what I was thinking.
"You always say that," I teased, but my voice didn't have much bite.
"I always do it though, right?"
He reached for me, pulling me back onto the bed so my head rested in the crook of his shoulder. His heartbeat was steady under my ear. We stayed like that for a while, not saying anything, the quiet filling in around us like a blanket.
The clock on the nightstand read 9:14 AM, but it could've been earlier, the sky still that pale, sleepy blue outside.
"Do you want me to come with you?" I asked eventually.
His hand paused in my hair. "Not this time. It's going to be back-to-back events, and I'd rather you stay here and relax. I hate the idea of you being bored out of your mind in some hotel room while I'm stuck in meetings."
"Maybe I'd like being bored," I said softly.
He kissed the top of my head. "You won't be bored here. You've got an entire house to yourself now."
"And an entire bed to myself," I pointed out, though the thought didn't make me feel as victorious as it sounded.
He shifted so he could see my face, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. "It's just a few days. Then I'm back here, where I belong."
The way he said it—quiet but certain—eased some of the tightness in my chest.
I let my fingers trace over the lines of his collarbone, the warm skin there still carrying the heat from earlier. "Fine. but if you come back with some terrible D.C. souvenir, I'm not pretending to like it."
He laughed. "You'll love whatever I bring you. You always do."
When we finally got out of bed, the rest of the morning was slow—him making coffee in the kitchen while I padded around in socks, opening blinds to let in the pale sun. We ate toast at the island, his phone buzzing every few minutes with messages he only half-answered.
The countdown to the election felt like another presence in the room, even when we didn't talk about it.
And I couldn't help wondering, as he leaned over to kiss me goodbye before heading to his office upstairs, how many more mornings like this we had left before the rest of the world started demanding more of him than I could give.
By the next morning, Brooks was long gone.
The house felt different without him—quiet, but not the peaceful kind. More like the air had settled heavier overnight.
I tried not to dwell on it. Instead, I set up at the kitchen island with my laptop and a legal pad, flipping between my email and the spreadsheet I'd made for my meeting with Evelyn.
She'd already told me I could give her seventy thousand up front if I wanted it, but the rest I'd have to finance.
I'd been running the numbers for days now—different scenarios, interest rates, down payments—and none of them felt real yet.
A sticky note sat by my coffee mug with Call Sam written in block letters. She was coming over later, and I knew the second she stepped through the door she'd ask if I'd made up my mind. I hadn't. Not really.
I was halfway through adjusting a column when my phone buzzed against the counter. Just a little notification from some political gossip page I followed by accident months ago and never unfollowed. Normally, I would've ignored it.
But the preview text froze me.
I tapped it before I could tell myself not to.
I stared until the letters blurred. It looked like something from a campaign poster or a glossy lifestyle spread—effortless, expensive, untouchable.
Margot in a short white dress, skirt flaring against the breeze.
Her arms looped around his neck like she'd been there forever.
Brooks leaning in, both hands caught at her waist.
The post was already flooded with comments, half of them heart emojis, the other half speculating about how long they've been together.
I stared at it, the cursor on my spreadsheet blinking in the corner of my vision. The rest of the world seemed to keep moving.
I closed my laptop picked the phone back up, staring at the curve of his hand on her back. My chest tightened.
The knock at the door made me jump.
When I opened it, Sam was standing there with her coat half-open, hair a little windblown, grinning like she already had something to say.
She stepped inside, eyes scanning the place before she even got her shoes off. "Okay, excuse me, who lives here? I know not Amira who room was always so messy you could never see the floor."
I snorted, taking her coat. "Wow. That's how you start your tour?"
"I'm just saying—this is giving MTV cribs." She wandered into the living room, touching the corner of a throw blanket. "This is soft. You're soft now."
"Brooks doesn't know he has thirty minutes until In here looks like the apartment," I said, following her in.
It was all furnished now—cozy but put-together, like the Pinterest boards I'd been saving in secret for years. Sam made a slow lap, peeking into the kitchen like she was appraising the place for a listing.
"This is nice, Mira," she said finally. "Like... really nice."
"Thanks."
We ended up in the kitchen, me rinsing two wine glasses while she sat on the counter like she owned it.
"So," she said, "club's still standing without you. This new girl, Tammy's there. She's been picking up doubles like crazy apparently she just moved to Philly from Texas I think she said. Running away from a toxic household. Tim thinks shes twenty one,
but i'm positive she's like eighteen maybe even younger."
I laughed. "Sounds about right."
"And I turned in my graduation paperwork," she added casually, like she wasn't dropping a bomb.
"You finally declared your date?"
"In six months, yeah." She tried to play it cool, but the smile broke through.
I grabbed her hand dramatically. "My baby's growing up."
She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. "Shut up."
We talked for a while—her shift stories, my half-hearted attempts at cooking. I kept wanting to bring up the Margot picture, just to get her read on it, but I could already hear her voice in my head: girl, that's not a good look. I wasn't ready for that.
So instead I said, "You talked to Tati lately?"
Sam lit up. "Let's call her right now."