thirty-six
A/N This might be the longest chapters i've ever wrote ??
The coffee machine hissed and clicked through the last of a brew; the fridge gave one tired hum; every so often Brooks's keyboard tapped in little bursts from the office down the hall.
I could see him from the kitchen—through the open doorway, past the credenza and the framed photograph of his grandfather shaking a mayor's hand.
He sat half-turned toward the window, the pale morning light cutting a neat line across his desk.
Shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms. Jaw working.
The blue glow of his screen flattening his face into focus and distance at the same time.
My phone made my thumb sore. Not because I was doing anything important on it—just the motion. Scroll, stop. Scroll, stop. I chewed the corner off a piece of toast.
We hadn't talked much that morning. We hadn't talked much in a few mornings, if I was being honest.
Nothing specific to point to—no fight left hanging in the air, no slammed doors.
Just the low-grade weather that creeps into a house when two people keep stepping around the same invisible thing.
I wasn't angry so much as...quiet. He was the same.
Polite. Careful. Always halfway in another room.
I scrolled past makeup videos and braid tutorials, a girl in her bathroom showing how she organized her suite with clear acrylic containers and labels.
I saved it without thinking, even though I wasn't ready to admit the saving meant anything.
There was a flyer for a pop-up market in Rittenhouse.
I saved that too. Samantha had sent a reel late last night with a caption that just said, "this is,".
A news alert sat at the top of my screen, unread. I didn't open it. I didn't want to start the day by seeing his name in a font that didn't belong to me.
Brooks rubbed his temple with two fingers, then reached for the mug at his elbow without taking his eyes off the laptop.
He missed it by an inch, found it on the second try, took a sip, and set it back in the exact same place like he was putting a piece back into a puzzle.
When he stretched, the chair made a quiet groan.
I watched the muscles pull tight in his forearms and felt a flash of heat in my stomach and then the softer ache that always came after.
I hated that I could be irritated with him and still want him in the same breath. It felt like my body had no loyalty.
The coffee machine sighed. I poured myself a half-cup just to have something to hold and stirred in too much sugar because sweet things went down easier than real conversation. From the office, he typed a little faster.
I muted the phone and set it screen-down next to my plate. The little dark rectangle felt accusatory.
He looked up then, finally—like he felt my attention hit him.
Our eyes met through the doorway. He didn't smile.
Not the polite one he used for cameras, not even the crooked one he used for me when he was trying to get away with something.
Just a small softening at the corners, like he'd been remembering he had a face.
He tapped something on his keyboard and closed the laptop.
The click of it shutting made the house feel even bigger.
When he came down the hall, he pressed his hands to the doorframe and leaned there a second, taking me in like I was something he'd been memorizing for a long time and wanted to check he still knew.
He looked like he'd slept under a stack of papers—hair pushed back with one unruly piece falling across his forehead, the line of his shirt a little wrinkled where the belt had dug in.
The knot of his tie wasn't there because he hadn't bothered with one yet.
He looked human in a way the TV never let him be.
"Morning," he said, voice low, a little rough.
"Morning." My fork scraped the plate. I took another bite of eggs. Chewed. Swallowed.
His eyes went to my phone and then back to me. "How'd you sleep?"
"Okay." I lied and took a sip of coffee to wash it down. "You?"
"Not much." He worked his jaw once, like something in it was tight. "Sorry I got in late."
"You texted," I said. "It's fine."
He huffed a breath like he didn't believe me.
Or like he believed me and hated the word fine more than a bad one.
He came into the kitchen and moved like he always did—efficient, precise—mug in the sink, sleeves pushed a touch higher, palm flattening over the mail stack to keep it from sliding.
He stood across from me at the island instead of walking around to my side like he used to do when he was in a mood to touch, and I felt the choice all the way to my spine.
"Work?" I asked, even though I knew.
He nodded. "A few zoom calls. A meeting on the rural broadband push. Staff wants a draft on a speech for next week." He paused, a beat long enough to feel like something unspoken was trying to climb out of his mouth and failing. "And I had to fix something from last night."
"What?"
"Nothing serious." He said it like he didn't want me to have to hold any part of it in my hands. "Boring."
"Boring," I echoed, and tried to smile so he would know I appreciated the attempt. The smile felt like it had been assembled out of parts and didn't know where to sit on my face.
He watched me, and I felt myself being seen in a way that made me want to look away and look harder at the same time.
His gaze dipped to my plate and then to my fingers wrapped around the mug, then back to my face.
I could tell when he started to pick a direction, the way his shoulders shifted like a boat catching a current.
"I've been—" He stopped. The muscle in his jaw jumped. "Distant."
I looked down into my coffee, where the sugar was still settling. "A little."
"I know." He said it carefully, not defensive, not begging for a reprieve. Just naming a fact in the room. "I don't like it."
"Me either."
Something in his face loosened at that. He rounded the island then, finally, and put a hand on the back of my chair like he was checking if it was safe to touch me. I let my knee bump his thigh. The contact was small and humiliatingly relieving.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"That's always dangerous."
A real smile, small. "True." He slid his fingers along the top of the chair then let them fall, like he didn't trust them not to make a promise his mouth hadn't made yet. "How do you feel about a trip?"
I blinked. "A trip?"
"And water." He tipped his head toward the window, where the sky was the color of a damp napkin. "Somewhere that doesn't look like that."
I narrowed my eyes a little, wary of being teased. "Like...a pond? We have one in the backyard."
He huffed another breath, quieter. "Bigger than a backyard."
I waited. He liked to build a thing before he gave it to me, making sure all the sides would hold.
He cleared his throat and glanced back toward the office, like he'd left the real words on the desk by accident. "I've got a window," he said finally. "A real one. Staff can live without me for a few days if I pretend to die."
I set my mug down. "A few days?"
"Would you hate that?"
"No." The answer was out of me too fast, too honest. I felt my face heat and tried to correct it. "I mean—no, I wouldn't hate that."
His mouth did that crooked thing it did when he'd gotten what he wanted without having to wrestle it from someone. He reached out, brushed his knuckles over the back of my hand. The touch was light and it still went straight to my chest. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"How fast can you pack a bag?" he asked. "Be
I stared at him, fork hovering halfway between the plate and my mouth.
"A bag?"
"Mm." His voice went low, thoughtful, like he was considering something far away. "Clothes you won't mind getting salty. A book you'll pretend to read but won't touch. Maybe a few swimsuits."
I blinked. "You're joking."
He looked at me like I'd just told him I didn't believe in gravity. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
His mouth was set in that subtle line that could've gone either way—stern if you wanted it to be, teasing if you knew him well enough. I tilted my head. "You don't usually do surprises."
"That's not true."
"Yes, it is. You plan. You over-plan."
He lifted his brows like I'd proven his point. Then, softer "I'm trying something different."
It was strange, seeing him stand there in the pale wash of morning, the edges of his hair stubbornly out of place, telling me he wanted to whisk me away.
My Brooks. The same one who could spend hours locked in his office, arguing with invisible people over draft lines.
The same one who sometimes felt like a stranger when I caught his name running across a news ticker.
And now—this.
"Where?" I asked, cautious, like if I pressed too hard the spell would break.
His eyes flickered, a private gleam lighting there. "Somewhere warm."
"That's not an answer."
"Good." He leaned down, close enough that I caught the faintest trace of his cologne, something woodsy that clung to his skin more than his shirt. "You don't need all the answers right now."
The fork clinked against the plate as I set it down. My heart was beating faster than it had all morning, like I'd been holding my breath for weeks and suddenly remembered how to let it out.
"You're serious," I whispered.
"Dead serious."
I gripped my mug tighter, needing something to ground me. "So this is an apology?"
He tilted his head, studying me. "Does it sound like one?"
"Yes."
"Then yes."
I laughed, short and disbelieving, but the knot that had been sitting between my ribs for days loosened a little. "You're ridiculous."
"I'll take ridiculous if it gets you to pack."
I shook my head and tried to hide the way my lips wanted to curve. "When?"
"Today."
"Today?" My voice pitched higher than I meant it to.
"Now, if I could swing it." His mouth tugged at the corner, a smile he was trying not to give me. "I booked us out. Bags in the car by noon. Monte already knows."
I stared. "You already planned this."
"I said I don't do surprises. Not that I don't prepare."