"Especially when it’s messy," he says.
We sit in silence, the room half-sorted, rays of sunlight beginning to spill through the window. There’s so much left to do. But for now, this moment feels like enough.
After a while, Brooks and I stand, his hand slipping into mine as he gives it a gentle tug.
"You want to go for a walk?" he asks, voice low and easy.
I nod. "Yeah, I could use a break."
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled light across the trail ahead. Shadows stretch and sway with the breeze, painting the dirt path in shifting golds and greens. Birds chirp lazily in the distance, their calls softened by the hush that falls between us.
Our fingers are loosely tangled, his thumb occasionally brushing the side of mine as we walk. The earth is soft beneath our steps, worn smooth by time and memory. Somewhere nearby, water trickles, and the scent of pine clings to the warm air.
We don’t say much. But the way Brooks keeps my hand wrapped in his says more than anything else ever could.
I’m split. Between the life I built in LA and the one quietly forming here. With him. With my family. With the mess and the magic of it all.
In California, I had everything I thought I wanted. Brand deals. Sponsorships. A carefully curated identity that looked good on camera. But offscreen? I was lonely. Untethered. I poured so much time into pretending to be someone people would follow that I forgot how to be someone I’d want to know.
I used to think that was success—brunch spots with plants on the wall, perfectly edited reels, and captions about ‘finding balance.’ But none of it held me the way this place does. This path. These trees. The way Brooks looks at me like I’m not a brand, but a person. Real. Messy. Worth something anyway.
And yet, I worked so hard to build that life. Even if it doesn’t fit anymore, it was mine. Walking away from it completely feels reckless. Irresponsible. What if I regret it? What if I stay here and end up resenting everything I gave up?
But if I leave, what am I walking toward? A version of myself I no longer believe in?
I used to feel like I fit in there. But now… now I feel like I fit here.
It’s just… I’m always in the wrong place. Or maybe I’m always leaving the right one.
"You haven’t said much," Brooks says softly, his voice breaking through the hush of the woods.
I squeeze his hand, grounding myself in the warmth of his palm. "Just thinking," I murmur, the words barely more than breath.
He glances sideways at me, concern etched across his brow. "You want to talk about it?"
I shake my head, my throat too tight to explain the storm brewing inside me. Just ahead, a creek murmurs over smoothstones, the water catching flecks of late afternoon sun like a trail of scattered stars.
"I’d rather dip my feet in that," I say, nodding toward it.
We veer off the trail and step down the embankment. The air is cooler near the water, scented with damp moss and wild mint. We peel off our shoes and step into the stream, the cold shocking against our skin. I hiss through my teeth as the water rushes over my ankles, crisp and biting, but invigorating. The kind of cold that wakes me up and forces me to feel everything.
Brooks steps beside me and immediately slips on a moss-covered rock, his arms flailing. I reach out and catch his wrist just in time, laughing as I steady him.
"That would’ve hurt," I tease.
"That would’ve beensoembarrassing," he grins, but his cheeks flush.
Then, in one motion, he tugs me toward him. I land against his chest, breath catching in both our throats. Before I can say a word, his lips are on mine—urgent and aching. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s raw. It’s desperate.
The sun filters through the canopy in shards of light, catching the water’s surface like glass. The sound of the creek drowns everything else—every thought and every fear. For a heartbeat, I wonder if the world could just stop here, if time could fold itself into this quiet space where nothing is decided yet.
Brooks’ laughter fades, replaced by a silence thick enough to feel. I can taste the moment before it changes.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish the second he lets go.
And maybe I will.
But not yet.
