Chapter 8
Tim’s POV
I step out of the shower with a grin, the image of Brielle lingering in my mind, her beauty unmistakable, though it’s not just her looks that captivate me. There’s something about her-something deeply genuine and kind. She has this way of tugging at my chest, making me worry about how fast I could fall for her if I don’t keep my guard up. Tossing on a fresh shirt, I head to the kitchen, grab some juice, and mull over the faint guilt I feel about letting her cook for me again. She never seems to mind, yet the nagging thought remains: shouldn’t I do something to give back?
Her playful remark about my knock echoes in my head, and so I rap louder this time, though it still feels odd to knock on an open door. I take a few steps inside and hear her phone ring. Not wanting to intrude, I hang back, slipping toward the kitchen but staying hidden. What I overhear stops me cold. The voice on the other end? Manipulative, selfish. It’s clear some people are exploiting Brielle’s kindness, and it feels uncomfortably familiar. I’ve seen this type before-the ones who twist generosity into an opportunity for advantage. Anger simmers alongside my sympathy, and another layer of my defenses crumbles as I listen.
Then, I hear it-a muffled sob. Her crying shatters my hesitation. In a heartbeat, I’m moving, my legs carrying me into the kitchen. The scene freezes me for a moment: Brie stands by the stove, her palms resting perilously close to its heat, head bowed, shoulders trembling. Every breath is a sob, raw and heart-wrenching. Rushing to her side, I pull her into my arms without giving it a second thought. She doesn’t resist. Instead, she folds into me, her head dropping onto my chest, her fingers clutching my shirt like it’s the only solid thing in her spinning world.
Instinct takes over, my arms wrapping around her tightly, my hand tracing slow circles along her back as I try to soothe the storm raging within her. I lose track of time-there’s no counting breaths, no measuring minutes. My shirt is wet from her tears, but I don’t care. The only thing that matters is her need for comfort. She clings as if letting go will shatter her completely, and I stand solid, willing to be her anchor for however long she needs.
My thoughts spiral with unanswered questions. What broke her like this? Who were those cruel people? Was it something deeper-a boyfriend, maybe? The something in him that crushed her like this? The idea makes me think of my sister, her heart broken years ago by someone who proved unworthy of her love. I hold Brie closer, suddenly desperate not to let the world crash further against her walls.
Her shuddering slows, the storm abating. She pulls back, a lingering sadness written in the set of her mouth and her watery eyes. Walking over to the counter, Brie grabs a tissue box, pulls out a handful, and lets out a loud sniff that’s anything but ladylike. There’s nothing polished in that moment, but it strikes me deeply-she isn’t hiding. Nothing guarded, just her raw, unfiltered self breaking and mending in front of me.
“Thanks for letting me cry it out,” she says, her voice still thick with emotion as she glances at the burnt remains of breakfast on the stove. “Guess our meal’s done for. How about grabbing breakfast at the café down the street?” There’s something in her tone, a quiet determination to push forward, to breathe fresh air and leave the hurt behind-if only for a little while.
“Sure,” I respond, sensing what she needs. “Feel like walking, or should I grab the car?”
“No, walking might help,” she says, purse already in hand. We exit the apartment, the short ride in the
11:07
elevator cloaked in silence. I don’t try to break it; she has too much on her mind, and anything I say would only feel hollow. As we step outside, my hand naturally rests on her lower back-a subtle gesture, grounding her. Guiding her gently feels like the right thing to do. In her place, I wouldn’t even notice where I was walking; perhaps she’d appreciate the quiet support as she processes it all.
She astounds me with her strength, the way she’s still holding herself together. Most would still be crumpled on the kitchen floor, yet Brie is fighting-building walls, setting up armor. It worries me to think she might shut me out in the process. Right now, all I want is to help her piece things back. together, to be someone she can lean on.
My thoughts drift to my mother. She’d tell me to stand by Brielle’s side no matter what. Mum’s always. been a champion for women in need, spending her days volunteering at a clinic for those hurt. physically and emotionally. A retired nurse, she could sense a wounded woman from a mile away, and she never hesitated to step in. Dad, still an active doctor, joins when he can. Should I mention the clinic to Brie? I hesitate-unsure if suggesting it would come across as concern or something less kind. Instead, I decide to hold off, to first see where today leads.
The café welcomes us with warm air, and I guide Brie to a quiet table toward the back, away from distractions. She settles in, eyes flicking toward the table, avoiding anything outside her immediate space. I focus on her, ignoring the waitress’s flirty tone as she arrives.
“What can I get ya?” she asks, chewing gum with exaggerated flair.
“Two black coffees, bacon and eggs, hash browns, and toast,” I answer, pushing aside my irritation at
her attitude. “Coffee now, please,” I add.
“Coming right up,” the waitress chirps, practically skipping away. I glance briefly at her retreating figure, shaking my head. Flirtation like hers feels unnecessary, almost performative.
Brie hasn’t looked up once, her attention firmly fixed on the tablecloth beneath her hands. I reach out lightly, tapping her hand to break the trance. “Brie?” I prompt gently. She blinks, startled, as if she’d nearly forgotten where she is. Her gaze sweeps the café, drawing in pieces of the world around her be fore coming back to me.
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft, her smile faint but genuine, her tears still gleaming in her eyes. I take her hand, squeezing it as I would my sisters during their own heartbreaks. The thought catches me- have I somehow placed Brie in the same space? Have I sister-zoned her?
