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16

B rooks

Logan met me at the entrance to the home with a grim look on his face.

He didn’t mention the fact that I was still wearing my suit from the wedding, my tie long gone, the top buttons of my shirt undone like I had rushed here the second I got the call.

And he was right not to bring it up. Because none of that mattered.

Nothing mattered except Mom.

“Thank you for being here, Lo.”

His gaze flicked to me, softening just slightly. “You don’t thank family.”

I swallowed. Right. But I still meant it.

“She’ll be fine,” he added. “But still, it startled me.”

Startled.

That was an understatement.

I nodded tightly, shoving my hands in my pockets as we passed other residents, some of them smiling, waving, others sitting by their doors, their eyes vacant, lost in a different decade.

I forced a small smile, but inside, I was drowning.

The hallway smelled like cafeteria food and medicine, the same as it always did, but today, it smelled worse.

Because now, I knew.

Now, I understood what had happened this morning.

Now, I was bracing myself for the fallout. We turned left into Mom’s room, and my heart slammed against my ribs the second I saw her in bed.

She was sedated, peaceful, her chest rising and falling steadily, her hands folded loosely over the blankets.

If not for the machines beeping softly around her, I could’ve pretended she was just sleeping.

I could’ve pretended she wasn’t slipping away from us more and more each day.

I took a slow breath, my throat thick.

“So what happened?”

Logan exhaled sharply and dropped into the one comfortable chair in the room, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Angela called me this morning,” he said. “Cops were here because Mom called them—said she was kidnapped, couldn’t get out.”

My stomach twisted.

“She was screaming,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “Woke up half the hall. Kept asking for Dean.”

Squeeze my fucking heart.

Dean.

She hadn’t said our names.

She hadn’t asked for her sons.

She had asked for our father—the man who died before we were even old enough to remember him.

I forced myself to breathe past the burn in my chest.

“Did she recognize you when you got here?”

Logan let out a hollow laugh, rubbing his hands down his face.

“No,” he admitted. “She was still in the middle of the episode when I arrived. I watched them get her into bed, gave her a sedative.” His voice wavered for the first time, and he looked at me with raw, unfiltered pain. “Brooks, this was fucked up.”

I swallowed against the sting in my own eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to see it.”

And I meant it.

I had seen one other episode where she had hurt herself—where she had begged me to let her go home to a place that didn’t exist anymore.

The helplessness had nearly broken me.

It still showed up in my dreams.

And now, Logan carried that weight too.

I felt like shit for not being here when it happened.

Instead, I had been in bed with a woman who only gave a tenth of her heart.

No.

I shoved thoughts of Michelle away before I could follow that spiral, clearing my throat.

I reached out, squeezing Logan’s shoulder. “Do you need to get some fresh air?”

“Not yet.” His voice was hoarse. “Angela’s coming to chat with us in a bit. I want to be here for that.”

He put his head in his hands, his breaths coming slow, measured, forced.

Then he whispered, “I feel so fucking helpless.”

I know.

I knew it so well it ate at me every single day.

“What do we do on the day she finally forgets us?” His voice cracked, and my chest ached with the sheer weight of it.

“How do we cope with that? We can’t leave her here alone, but if we’re strangers to her, what do we do?”

I took a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay steady.

“We talk to her,” I said. “We tell her we’re family friends. Volunteers. The kids of another resident. We figure out a way to be in her life—even if she doesn’t remember who we are.”

I turned toward him, my throat tight as hell.

“She loves flowers and storms. Thrillers and crosswords. We bring her those things. We keep her world familiar, even if her mind isn’t.”

Logan lifted his head, his eyes glassy.

“How do you know this?”

I exhaled. “Because I’ve been researching whether she’d be better off at home with one of us, with a live-in nursing staff.”

His eyes widened.

“How would that even work?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “I’m gone six months of the year with the team, so it would fall on you, and I can’t ask you that.” I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat. “But after this latest episode, I don’t think either one of us could handle it alone.”

The words rang like truth in the quiet room.

“She has better care here.”

Logan sat motionless, taking in the reality of it.

Finally, he nodded.

“Twenty-four-seven care,” he muttered. “And she knows the place. The people.” He looked down at our mother’s peaceful face, his jaw tightening. “I love her to death, Brooks. But I can’t do what happened last night again.”

Neither can I.

“She needs to stay here,” I said.

He nodded again. “Are finances an issue?”

“Not one bit.”

It had only been mentioned once, but it had been enough. I made millions, and I paid for her care. Logan did well for himself, but it didn’t make sense for him to worry about it when it was nothing for me.

And I would do it a hundred times over to make sure she had the best.

Angela knocked softly on the door, stepping inside with that kind but serious look that made my stomach clench.

We knew what was coming.

“Hey boys,” she greeted gently. “How are you doing?”

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“The cops left, and there’s no harm. They know to check with us when they get calls from here, but I guess the dispatcher was new.” She shook her head. “She had a good day yesterday. We did some music therapy, and she wrote down memories she had from the songs. Nothing but smiles and recollections from your childhoods. Apparently, Logan was a pain.”

We laughed because we were supposed to, and she continued. “It must’ve triggered something when she dreamt. I’m glad she didn’t hurt herself more.”

“Does she need to be monitored more? Checked more often?” Logan asked.

“We are going to do more check-ins with her now. Instead of every three hours, we’ll do two.” She got a serious look, and I tensed. “We might want to talk about removing her cell phone. She’ll still have the plug-in, but she was calling the old warehouse, asking for your father.”

The temperature in the room dropped, and I hated the disease with so much passion that I could punch a hole in a brick wall. I swallowed loudly and met her eyes. “Okay.”

“She’ll put up a fight when she’s doing well. She loves getting texts from you boys.”

“Can she have it during the day?” Logan asked, presenting the perfect idea. “She’s out and about in the recreation center, and it would be easier to manage during the day. I send her pictures all the time, and I-I don’t want to stop.”

“We’ll do that, yes. We’ll see how it goes and if that works, then we’ll keep it status quo.” She came up and gave us each a hug. “You are both great sons. I hope you know that.”

“It doesn’t always feel that way when she’s trapped in her mind,” I said, getting another rush of anger at the injustice. “But thank you. We appreciate your kindness.”

She smiled. “I assume you’ll both be here until she wakes up?”

“Yes,” we said at the same time.

“Good. I’ll check in with you in a couple of hours, but let me know if you need anything.” She paused before leaving the door and gave us a smirk. “There are snacks in my fridge. Help yourself.”

Logan smiled at her and didn’t explain when I raised an eyebrow. “Snacks? What kinda snacks?”

“Mind your own business,” he teased and eyed my outfit, and things seemed normal again. She would be okay—we, our family, would be okay. It’d be hard as hell and a different version of normal, but we’d get through it.

We put on the news. but neither one of us seemed to be listening, and when she stirred a couple of hours later, she was so happy to see us that I fought tears. Today wasn’t the day she forgot her sons. It could be the next one, or in a year, but it wasn’t today, and we hung out with our mom for hours, watching NCIS and ordering pizza. We left with the promise of stopping by soon, and a weight was lifted off my shoulders knowing she needed to stay there.

If anything, I could move closer to the facility so I could see her every day. I filed that plan away for later and drove home. It wasn’t until I’d showered, napped and did an intense workout that I realized Michelle had texted me.

Michelle: Hi, it’s Mitch. I hope you’re okay and your family is okay. I keep thinking about you. Not in a possessive relationship way but in an I want to see you to make sure you’re fine way.

She would say that. I rolled my eyes and couldn’t stop my lips from curving up at the sides.

Michelle: I’m working until midnight and have to be back by seven tomorrow morning, and I won’t get off until four. But then I study. What I’m saying is, tomorrow from four until five, do you want to get together?

Brooks: Are you asking me out?

Michelle: Never.

Brooks: Well, then I’m quite busy between four and five.

Michelle: No, you’re not.

Brooks: You don’t know my life.

Michelle: Maybe I want to?

My mouth fell open. Michelle was flirting and being cute and surprising the hell out of me. Asking to see me and admitting she wanted more than a booty call? Holy shit.

Michelle: Erase that message. It’s not my brand.

Brooks: I’m saving it. Forever.

Brooks: Come over after your shift. Stay with me tonight.

Michelle: It’s late though.

Brooks: I don’t care. I can pick you up, drop you off at work?

Michelle: I need some stuff from my place.

Brooks: Want me to stay at yours?

Her response wasn’t immediate, and I regretted pushing my luck. Her asking to hang out had to be her way of apologizing from assuming I was leaving her without a word. I knew she had baggage. That was obvious. But I was strong and could hold it if she gave me the chance.

Michelle: I’d like that.

Brooks: I’ll see you at midnight, Mitch.

Michelle: : )

Wow, a smiley face, too? It must be a full moon.

* * *

I hated where she worked.

The restaurant sat in a part of town that was one bad night away from making the news, tucked between a Cash Now & Loans and a liquor store with bars on the windows. The kind of place where people disappeared and no one asked questions.

And she worked here. Every damn day.

I gripped the steering wheel, tapping my fingers against it, trying to keep my thoughts from boiling over. She would pull away if I told her how much I hated her being here.

She would assume I was trying to control her life, and that would be the quickest way to lose her completely. And I wasn’t willing to risk that.

But fuck, it was hard.

I spotted her as she walked out, her long hair loose, her skirt swaying around her thighs, and it hit me all over again.

She was so fucking pretty.

Pretty in a way that made me ache, in a way that made me want to keep her. Not in a possessive way.

But in an I want to wake up next to you every morning, I want to know how your day went, I want to share the good and the bad with you kind of way.

She flashed a smile when she saw me, but before she could take more than a step toward the car, I saw movement behind her.

Two guys.

Fast strides. Not quite a run, but definitely not a walk.

Fuck.

I threw the door open, my heart hammering as I moved toward her. She must’ve heard them, too, because she turned around before I could reach her.

She said something, patted her purse on her side, and just like that, they took off.

By the time I reached her, she looked completely unbothered.

"Brooks, hi. Hey."

Her eyes were still bright, still full of that effortless joy, like she hadn’t just had to ward off two guys in a dark alley.

"What did they want?" My jaw was clenched so tight I could feel my molars grind together.

"Money. Drugs." She shrugged, like it was nothing. Like this was just another Tuesday for her. And then she laughed.

"Brooks, it’s fine. I told them I carry a loaded gun and would have no problem shooting their little dicks off. They took off real fast after that."

I stared at her, my stomach a knot of tension and disbelief.

"Wait." My voice came out tight. "Do you… do you carry?"

She tilted her head, smirk creeping across her lips. "Guess you’ll never know."

My fingers twitched at my sides, my entire body still wired, still on high fucking alert while she just… stood there.

Completely unfazed.

And then she jutted her chin toward my car. "A Lexus, huh? I pictured you as a Beamer guy."

I blinked. "What does that even mean?"

"Nothing bad." She shrugged, walking toward the car. "Just how I pictured you in my mind."

I opened the door for her, watching as she slid in so effortlessly, so unknowingly lethal to my self-control.

"You’ve been picturing me in your mind?" I smirked. "Am I naked?"

"Most of the time."

"Good answer."

I pulled her in for a hug, my grip tighter than necessary, like my body still needed to confirm she was safe, here, with me.

She grinned as I started the drive back to her place, but her voice was softer when she said, "I can’t believe I just saw you this morning. Feels like a week ago."

"I know what you mean." I reached for her hand and held on.

Her fingers curled around mine tightly, but when I asked, "Were you ever close with your mom?"

Her grip turned vice-like. Like my question had physically wounded her.

She sat straighter, and I could almost hear the cracks in her spine, the way she locked up at just the mention of it.

"No."

That single word was wrapped in barbed wire, fortified with every possible defense mechanism.

I let the silence stretch between us, my thumb brushing over her knuckles.

She wasn’t ready to talk.

And as much as I wanted to tear that word apart, unravel it, see what was hiding underneath, I knew if I pushed too hard, she’d retreat.

So I simply said, "I’m sorry to hear that."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she shifted the conversation, the way she always did. But I was onto her now. She was an expert at deflection, at rerouting conversations to focus on anyone but herself.

I wasn’t going to let her do it forever. Not with me.

"Is your family doing okay?" she asked instead, her voice smooth, practiced.

I watched her for a beat, then made my move.

"Will you tell me about your mom someday?" I asked, lifting our joined hands and pressing a kiss to the back of hers.

Her lips parted, her breath caught, her walls cracking just slightly.

"Not now," I added. "But someday?"

She hesitated. I could feel her struggling, waging war between the part of her that wanted to trust me and the part that had been burned too many times to risk it.

“Yes?" It came out like a question, like she wasn’t sure why she was saying it.

I smiled. "I like learning things about you. The good, bad, weird, and fun."

Her throat bobbed, and then she nodded.

"But yes," I continued, answering her original question. "Things settled down with my family. My mom is one of my favorite people on earth, and she’s going through some tough shit with Alzheimer’s. It’s… crushing." I exhaled. "I’d rather not talk about it tonight, if that’s okay?"

"Of course."

She nodded, but her lips pressed together tightly, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Something like understanding.

She was so different now, the teasing edge gone, replaced with something softer.

And I wanted to pull her into my lap. Hold her until that look disappeared.

But instead, I turned on my stereo, blasting the heavy metal band I’d researched online.

She gasped, then laughed, throwing her head back.

"I use it to relax," I deadpanned.

"You would play a fake metal band." She rolled her eyes, but her laughter still echoed through the car.

"Not impressed?"

"I appreciate the effort, Madsen. Sometimes, that’s enough."

Her smile lingered, and I knew I’d done something right.

The drive to her place was comfortable, the kind of silence that felt easy, not forced.

The air between us was still warm from the night, still buzzing with something unspoken, something thick and heavy that neither of us had the energy to name. The music played softly in the background, the deep, throaty growl of guitars filling the space, a contrast to the slow, methodical tap of my thumb against the steering wheel.

Despite her earlier teasing, she bobbed her head slightly, her fingers twitching against her thigh, like she wanted to drum along to the beat but didn’t want to give me the satisfaction.

I caught it anyway.

Didn’t call her out.

But it made me smile.

Her apartment complex came into view, the neon glow of a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the cracked pavement.

The place looked even shittier at night—a couple of cars parked haphazardly in the lot, trash piled near the dumpster, the faint sound of a TV blasting from an open window.

I hated that she lived here, knowing damn well she deserved so much better.

But I kept my mouth shut.

I pulled into an empty spot, shifting the car into park, letting the engine hum beneath us for a moment before killing it.

Michelle exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders like she was prepping herself to go inside. And that’s when I saw it.

The exhaustion.

The moment she thought I wasn’t looking, the second she let herself drop the strong front, I saw just how tired she was.

Not just physically—though I could see the tension in her limbs, the way her body moved like it was heavier than usual—but in a way that went so much deeper.

This wasn’t just a long day at work exhaustion.

This was carrying the weight of the world exhaustion.

And for some reason, that realization hit me harder than I expected.

She reached for the door handle, and before she could push it open, I reached for her hand, gently tracing my thumb over her knuckles.

She stilled. Didn’t pull away. Just let me hold on.

“Come on, Mitch. Let’s get you inside.”

She nodded, barely more than a tilt of her chin, and I got out, moving around to her side before she could argue.

She didn’t fight me when I opened her door, didn’t give me some half-hearted I don’t need you to help me speech.

She just stepped out, let me take her bag from her shoulder, and walked beside me toward the stairs.

And fuck, she looked spent.

Her movements were slower, her steps heavier, and by the time we reached her door, I could tell she was seconds away from collapsing.

She fumbled with her keys, missing the lock twice before I gently took them from her, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

She blinked up at me, her lips parting like she was about to argue, but I gave her a look.

"Go get in bed, Michelle."

For once, she didn’t argue.

Just sighed, kicked off her shoes, and wandered inside, her bag slipping off her shoulder as she made her way to the bedroom.

I followed, locking the door behind me.

By the time I walked into her bedroom, she was already curled up under the blankets, her body barely taking up any space on the mattress.

Her hair was messy, spilling across the pillow, and for a second, I just stood there, watching her, wondering how the hell she had wormed her way so deep under my skin.

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?" she mumbled, eyes still closed, voice thick with exhaustion.

I smirked, kicking off my shoes and pulling off my jacket before sliding into bed beside her. The mattress dipped under my weight, and without thinking, I reached for her, pulling her against me, wrapping my arms around her waist.

She let me.

Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t pull away. Just melted into my chest like she belonged there. For a while, we didn’t say anything. Michelle's breathing had evened out, her body melting further into the mattress, her weight sinking into me like she was finally allowing herself to rest. I traced slow, soothing circles along her back, running my palm from the dip of her spine up to her shoulders, feeling the slight tension still locked in her muscles.

She was so tired. Not just from the long shift, not just from the weight of the day, but from years of carrying everything alone.

She hid it well.

The way she joked, the way she pretended like she could handle everything on her own, the way she never let herself ask for help.

But I felt it now. In the way she leaned into my touch without hesitation.

In the way she sighed deeply, like her body was finally letting go of something it had held onto for too long

"Can I be in your life, Michelle?" I murmured, my lips brushing against her temple. "I want you in mine."

She stilled.

For a second, I thought she might pull away, that her instinct to protect herself would kick in and she’d put up her walls all over again. But instead, she blushed.

It was so faint, just the softest pink dusting her cheeks. This girl was not shy. But this moment was different.

And fuck, I liked seeing her like this.

She bit her lip for a second before smiling—small, tentative, but real. "I think I’m leaning that way."

"Leaning that way?" I laughed softly, wrapping my arms more securely around her, pressing a kiss into her messy hair. "What can I do to convince you?"

She hummed, lazily tracing patterns on my chest, her fingers light but deliberate.

"Just be you," she whispered. "It’s working better than I would’ve guessed."

Something in my chest ached.

The way she said it, like she wasn’t used to people proving her wrong. Like she’d expected me to be just another guy who walked away.

She curled tighter against me, resting her head in the space between my neck and shoulder, her breath warm against my skin.

And then, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it:

"I moved out of my home at sixteen.”

I froze.

Her voice was flat, her words coming out calculated, like she was listing off facts instead of pieces of her past.

"My mom is just as bad as my brother when it comes to alcohol," she continued. "But she’s worse because she convinces you she’s better. My brother knows what he is and doesn’t hide it, but my mom… she thinks the world owes her and takes what she can."

Jesus. I’d asked if she was close with her mother. What the hell was I thinking?

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around her waist.

"And your dad?" I asked, careful with my tone now. "I know you said he’s in prison… but why?"

She exhaled, slow and measured, like she was bracing herself. "I appreciate you not looking it up online," she murmured. "It’s best to get it out in the open before this… might get kinda serious."

I ignored her kinda.

I was already serious about her.

"I’ll never look up a thing about you, Mitch," I promised, my fingers tracing lazy patterns down her arm. "I’ll always ask. And I hope you do the same."

She lifted herself onto her elbow, and when she looked down at me, her eyes were devastatingly sad.

"My birth father is a conman," she admitted, her voice tight. "He stole thousands from people by running scams before getting caught. He’s behind bars and has been since I was nineteen."

I let the words sink in, my brain automatically filling in the gaps of what that must have been like for her.

She hesitated, then continued, "My last name is hyphenated, Benning-Watson, but I only keep my mom’s maiden name since it sparks less outrage if you look me up online."

She watched me carefully, like she was waiting for me to react. Like she was waiting for me to flinch. But I wouldn’t.

Not for this. Not for her. I smiled, soft and steady.

"Okay," I said simply. "Is that it?"

She blinked, caught off guard.

"Is that it?" she laughed, shaking her head. "It’s a huge deal, Brooks. If you’re seen with me and someone puts it together who I am, it could be bad for your PR."

"One, I don’t give a shit about that."

Her lips parted slightly.

"And two," I continued, shifting to press a slow kiss against her jaw, "it makes me happy to know you’re willing to go out on dates with me."

She relaxed, just enough.

"That’s your big hang-up?" I murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth.

She sighed. "My family will try to get money from you if they learn about our involvement. My mom, my brother… even my dad has people on the outside working for him."

She let out a humorless laugh. "I don’t talk to them. Ever. Even with my brother breaking in… we don’t speak. I’ll never forgive them for how they treated me, discarded me, and used me."

My stomach twisted at the thought of her growing up in that.

"I can handle them if they come for me," I said firmly, running my hand down her arm in what I hoped was reassurance.

She scoffed, dropping her head back onto my chest.

"You’re worth a little drama," I added.

She huffed a small laugh, but there was something softer about it. "Aw, such a romantic," she murmured, closing her eyes.

She was so fucking tired.

I could feel it in the way her body melted into me, like she wasn’t just physically drained, but emotionally spent too.

"I can’t remember the last time I told someone my past."

A sharp ache speared through my chest.

"Fiona and Brigham, right?" I asked, knowing they were the only people in her life who might have a chance.

"No. Not all of it. Just you."

Just you.

Those two words took root in the center of my chest and stayed there.

They stayed when she fell asleep against me, when I watched her breathe, when I pressed a kiss against her temple and whispered, "Sleep, Mitch."

And they remained when we woke up, when we fooled around in the shower, when she got ready for work in scrubs.

She stood at the mirror, tying her hair up into a messy bun, and caught my gaze in the reflection.

"This is weird," she murmured, studying me.

"What is?" I asked, pulling on my shirt, watching her carefully.

"You here." She said with a tenderness I hadn’t seen before on her face. "It’s like you’ve been here all along."

And fuck.

If that didn’t feel like the biggest confession of all.