And then she’s there.
Brooke.
She walks out with the rest of the crew, a cluster of navy uniforms and rolling suitcases, laughter bubbling between them. Except, she’s not laughing. She’s not even talking. Her head is down, eyes fixed on the floor.
God, she’s not going to see me.
I straighten my shoulders.No. Not this time.I’m Matthew fucking Basen. A grown man. Not some fumbling idiot hiding behind a piece of cardboard.
I take a deep breath, drop the sign onto a nearby luggage cart, and step forward.
“Brooke.”
She stops mid-stride, startled, her eyes lifting to meet mine. And just like that, every clever line I rehearsed evaporates. The dark smudges beneath her eyes peek through her makeup, and something tightens in my chest.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
Her lip trembles. Then her whole face crumples, and before I can process it, tears are spilling down her cheeks.
“Hey, hey…”
I reach for her, pulling her into my arms right there in the middle of the terminal. People glance as they walk around us, but I don’t care. Not one damn bit. She shakes against me, quiet sobs wracking her body, and I just hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles down her spine.
After a moment, when the sobs taper into silent tears, I crouch and pick up her bag. “Come on,” I murmur.
She doesn’t protest when I guide her through the sliding doors and out into the warm New York air. She doesn’t speak as I flag down a cab or when I rattle off my address to the driver. She just leans into me, exhausted, her head resting against my shoulder like every ounce of energy has been wrung out of her.
The ride is quiet. I want to ask what happened, to fix it, todosomething, but right now, silence feels like the kindest thing I can give her.
When the cab slows in front of my building, I press a couple bills into the driver’s hand and step out, looping her bag over my shoulder. She follows, still silent, still distant. I lace my fingers gently through hers and guide her inside.
The elevator, finally fixed after weeks of being out, is waiting on the ground floor. We step inside together, the hum of the cables the only sound between us. She leans against the wall, eyes half-lidded, and I resist the urge to pull her into my arms again right there.
But I wait.
I wait until we’re inside my apartment, small, quiet, perfect for me. I drop her bag just inside the door and turn to ask if she’s hungry, if she wants tea, water, anything… but the words never make it past my lips.
Because Brooke is already walking, almost mechanically towards the bed in the middle of the room. She doesn’t even bother to take off her heels. She just sinks down, sideways into the mattress, and stays there.
For a moment, I stand frozen in the doorway, my heart cracking in a dozen directions I don’t know how to fix. Then I cross the room and kneel beside her. Gently, I slip one heel off, then the other, setting them on the floor.
“Hey,” I whisper, though I don’t even know if she hears me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, close enough that my side brushes her knee. My hand finds the curve of her side.
I want to ask what’s wrong. If she’s hurt. Who I should kill. Every question burns at the back of my throat, clawing to get out. But I don’t. I force myself to stay still, to let her move through whatever storm she’s caught in. To let herfeelinstead of drowning her with my panic.
She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at some point on the wall. And then, slowly, her shoulders start to shake again. Quietly at first, then harder, until her breath breaks in short, ragged gasps that make my chest ache.
Instinct takes over. I slide closer, lying behind her, my chest pressed to her back. My arms wrap around her trembling frame, holding her together as best I can, even if I can’t fix a damn thing. Something big must happened for her to react like this.
“Shh,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
For a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of her sobs and the soft thud of my heartbeat against her back. Then, through the cracks in her voice, she manages three small, words:
“My dad’s dead.”
Chapter Six
