At first, it’s just a twitch, a small, unconscious movement. Then a soft sound escapes her, a half-formed word, and she shifts restlessly against me. My chest tightens. She’s dreaming.
“Shh…” I murmur, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Without really thinking about it, I start humming, a tune I barely know from some random reel I scrolled past days ago. My singing voice is objectively awful, but it doesn’t matter.
It seems to work.
Her breathing evens out again, the tension melting from her body. She rolls onto her stomach, face half-buried in the pillow,and I take the opportunity to slowly, carefully slip my arm from under her.
It’s pins and needles the moment it’s free, but I don’t care. I slide off the bed as quietly as I can and cross to the window, pulling the blinds shut so the setting sunlight won’t wake her.
Then I turn back to look at her, curled up, peaceful, her brow finally smooth instead of knotted with grief.
And it hits me, sudden and fierce, how badly I want to protect this. Protecther.
I glance around the room. It’s not like I can exactly disappear into another room, unless I want to spend the next few hours locked in the bathroom. So, on silent feet, I wander into the tiny kitchen and pull open the fridge. There’s food, but I could always use more.
I debate it for a second. Then I go.
The store’s only a block away, and I’m back in less than thirty minutes, quick enough that she won’t wake up alone. The rest of the afternoon I spend on the sofa, doing nothing, just… listening. Every sigh, every little shift makes my heart jump.
It’s nearly eight when Brooke stirs, stretching languidly before her eyes flutter open.
I give her space, heading back to the kitchen to start dinner. I’d grabbed some ramen from the store, not the cheap “I’m broke” kind, but thegoodstuff, the spicy Buldak packets I love mixing with the carbonara ones topped with sunny-side-up eggs and chopped green onions. Simple, no fuss. And if I remember right, Brooke doesn’t exactly shy away from heat.
She gives me a lazy smile on her way to the bathroom. By the time she comes back, the noodles are nearly done. I’m tearingopen the sauce packet when she pauses, holding up a box of tampons I left on the counter.
Her brow arches. “Expecting company?”
I shrug. “I asked you to stay. Figured you might need them.”
Her mouth curves into something halfway between a smirk and a frown. “I can’t decide if that’s sweet or…”
“Practical,” I say, draining the noodles, carefully holding them back with chopsticks instead of a strainer because I like to live dangerously. “I grew up with a single mom and aunts. First time I bought those, I was ten and it was an emergency.”
She laughs, soft and surprised. “You’re cute.”
But then her gaze drops back to the box. “I… won’t need these for-” She cuts herself off mid-sentence, going completely still.
I tilt my head, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
Brooke’s fingers loosen. The box hits the table with a dullthud.
“I… uh…”
Her face drains of colour. I turn the burner off instantly and cross the kitchen to her. “Brooke. What’s wrong?”
Her eyes are wide, panicked. “I found out about my dad when I got back from Paris and I just-” She swallows hard, words tumbling over each other. “I forgot. I forgot to get the morning-after pill.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Matthew, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe-”
“It’s okay, Brooke.Breathe,” I say quickly, reaching for her hands.
“It’s okay?” she yells, voice cracking under the weight of hysteria. “It’s okay?Your sperm is probably swimming around in here!” She gestures wildly to her lower stomach, eyes wide and terrified.
I bite back a laugh I know would get me killed. “Brooke… it’s been two weeks. If it’s going anywhere, it’s already reached its destination by now.”
She jabs a finger in my direction, glaring. “Donotbe cute right now.”
