Page 93 of Kisses and Paperclips

Because even with Zamir curled against my side, even with everything I was doing to show up the way I’m supposed to—

Julien was still there.

His voice slid into my thoughts like smoke:

“You’re mine now.”

And just like that, my body betrayed me.

A single thought of him, his voice, that low, commanding heat, sent a shiver down my spine. My nipples tightened beneath the thin cotton of my tank, thighs pressing together without permission.

He had a hold on me I didn’t want to name.

One that didn’t fade with distance or time. One that made me do stupid things. Like stealing a hoodie from his house and wearing it for two days straight. It still smelled like his expensive cologne and whatever lived in the space between his skin and my memory.

Every time I pulled it closer, it felt like he was wrapping himself around me again with something deeper. It didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like a leash, and I was still wearing it. Every corner of my day, he found a way in. I was pulling out my second coffee mug for the day when the doorbell rang.

I froze.

Now, who was that?

Ms. Brooks.

What the hell did she want?

I sucked my teeth and turned the knob, but I didn’t even get the door halfway open before she pushed it the rest of the way, breezing past me like she had keys to the place.

“Please,” I muttered, stepping aside. “Make yourself at home.”

“I haven’t seen you in the office,” she said, already halfway into the living room. “Thought I’d check in.”

I watched her eyes sweep across the space like she was conducting an audit, loaded with quiet judgment tucked behind every glance.

Her gaze landed on the table, Nyquil and Dayquil, with a half-used thermometer.

“You’re sick?” she asked, arching a brow.

“No,” I said, arms crossed. “My brother.”

“Hmm.” A hum. Not sympathetic or concerned. Just… acknowledgment. Like a box had been checked.

“I appreciate the visit,” I said, voice clipped. “But a call or text would’ve done the trick.”

“That’s the problem with your generation,” she said, setting her purse down like she planned to stay. “So impersonal. Always hiding behind your screens. You’ve forgotten how to connect.”

“Or,” I said, matching her tone, “we just enjoy our space, and know when to decipher when we’re not wanted.”

“I forget you’re raising a teenager,” she said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. “At your age, I was in the prime of my life.”

I didn’t answer right away.

I let the words sit there between us for a second, thinking about what she meant by those words. As if youth was something I’d wasted by loving someone other than myself.

“The prime of your life…” I said slowly, “isn’t a time. It’s a choice.” Her brow lifted, but I kept going.

“It’s not about how many candles are on a cake or how tight your skin looks in the mirror. It’s about how present you are. How willing you are to live the life you have, not the one you planned, or the one you thought you deserved, but the one in front of you.”

She stayed silent her eyes never leaving me.

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