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Taylor’s eyes glistened. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. That house… it’s my home.”

“Nah,” Brooks said softly. “That shit is wood, cinderblock, paint and walls. I’m home. At least I’m trying to be.”

“Brooks, I didn’t mean…”

“Then figure it out,” he cut in. “But don’t keep showing up in my life halfway. I can’t build with somebody scared of the foundation. We gotta start somewhere.”

Taylor reached for his hand. “I’m working on it. Please know I’m working on it.”

He brought hers to his lips, kissed it once. “Alright then.”

They sat there for a moment in the quiet, the tension between them tender but not toxic.

This was love, too.

The messy middle.

The hard parts.

Brooks wasn’t sorry for being selfish.

Not sorry for wanting her full time in his life.

And he wasn’t bending on that.

But on the other hand?

He loved her too much to force it.

“Coming in?” She asked softly.

“Nah, I need some rest and I gotta handle some shit at the crib in the morning.” She rolled her eyes but said ok and exited the car. Everyone was having problems it seemed.

Taylor stood in her living room, watching Brooks’ taillights disappear down the street. The hollow feeling in her chest surprised her, they hadn’t fought, not really, yet something about the evening left her unsettled. Incomplete. She flipped on lights as she moved through the rooms, dropping her purse and keys on the entry table, slipping off her shoes by the couch.

But tonight, the silence felt different. Less like peace and more like absence.

In the bathroom, she turned the shower to its hottest setting, letting steam fill the small space as she undressed. The water scalded her skin when she stepped under the spray, but she welcomed the burn, tilting her face into the stream.

That shit is wood, cinderblock, paint and walls. I’m home. At least I’m trying to be.

Brooks’ words echoed in her mind as she reached for her shampoo. She worked the lather through her hair, eyes closed against the suds, but there was no escaping the truth he’d laid bare. She hated when he was right.

Brooks wasn’t Tyree. The comparison wasn’t even fair, one man who’d taken and taken until there was nothing left, versus a man who’d done nothing but give since that first night he’d picked her up from work.

He gave her space when she needed it. Strength when she faltered. Called her on her shit when she deserved it. Loved her even when she was still learning how to love herself again.

What was she afraid of, really?

The hot water began to cool, forcing her to finish her shower. As she stepped out, wrapping a towel around her body, Taylor caught her reflection in the steam-clouded mirror. She wiped away the condensation with her palm, revealing her face piece by piece.

There she was, Taylor Bradshaw. Divorced. Independent. Healing.

But also: Loved. Wanted. Chosen.

As she climbed into her empty bed in her quiet house, Taylor couldn’t shake the feeling that she was clinging to a symbol rather than a sanctuary. That her carefully constructed independence had become its own kind of prison.

She reached for her phone, thumb hovering over Brooks’ contact. What would she even say? I’m sorry I’m scared? I’m trying? I love you, but I don’t know how to do this?