Emersyn
I can't help but grin as I slide behind the wheel of my car, the scent of freshly baked bread still lingering in my nostrils. The interview went better than I ever could have imagined. Carol, the bakery owner, greeted me with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye, putting me at ease almost instantly.
I barely had time to take a seat before Carol began to tell me about the bakery, her passion for baking evident in every word. She didn't even glance at the portfolio I had painstakingly prepared. Instead, she looked at me, her eyes probing, and simply said, "I can tell you're a good baker. I can feel it in my bones."
Her confidence in me was both startling and heartening, and I found myself talking freely about my love for baking, my experiments in the kitchen, and my hopes for the future. By the time I left, I had a job offer in hand, and a new sense of purpose and excitement.
The drive home is a joyous one, filled with thoughts of new beginnings and possibilities. The world seems brighter, filled with promise, and I can't wait to share the news with Valarie and the guys.
When I pull up to the house, I'm surprised to see a mechanic's van parked in the driveway. Is he here to fix the washer? I frown, wondering why Cruz didn't fix the washer himself, but then I remember he's been swamped with work lately. Maybe he decided to call in a professional to get it done faster.
I hurry inside, eager to toss in a load of laundry and celebrate my new job. The mechanic greets me as I walk in, wiping his hands on a rag.
"Hi there, ma'am. Just finishing up with the washer. A guy let me in earlier, but he left," he says, nodding towards the laundry room.
"Thank you," I reply, grateful that it's fixed. The dirty laundry has started piling up.
The mechanic packs up his tools, and I sign off on the work order. He smiles and tips his hat, heading out to his van.
Once he's gone, I walk over to the washer, relieved to see it back in working order. I throw in a load of laundry and take a moment to breathe, my mind still spinning from the whirlwind of the day.
With a contented sigh, I head to my room, feeling a connection to the world around me that I haven't felt in ages. The worries and fears that have been clouding my mind seem to have lifted, replaced by hope and determination.
The thought of working in the bakery, of being part of something I love, fills me with a sense of purpose and excitement. I change out of my interview clothes, replacing them with a pair of joggers and a cropped tank. My energy is on high, and I'm going to take advantage of it.
The house, usually kept tidy enough by the guys and me, suddenly feels like it could use a bit more sparkle. With my energy on high, I pull out the vacuum cleaner and start with the living room.
The hum of the vacuum cleaner is almost meditative, and I find myself lost in thought as I work my way across the plush carpet and hardwood.
I switch out the first load of laundry, deciding on a whim to wash all the guys' clothes too. After all, I'm feeling generous and invigorated, and it's the least I can do. They're working so much, while I on the other hand have just been lounging around the house.
From the living room, I move on to the kitchen, scrubbing down countertops and polishing appliances until they shine like new. I even tackle the inside of the fridge, organizing the contents and wiping down the shelves.
The bathrooms are next, and I spare no effort in making them sparkle. I scrub the tiles, polish the mirrors, and even add a fresh bouquet of flowers to brighten up the space.
As the day wears on, my body moves almost on autopilot as I clean, scrub, dust, and organize. The laundry machine buzzes in the background, a constant reminder of the growing piles of folded laundry accumulating on the kitchen table, the island, and the coffee table.
By the time evening draws close, the house is transformed. The floors gleam, the windows so spotless you can barely see the glass, and every surface is clean and clutter-free.
I step back, surveying my work with a satisfied smile. The piles of folded laundry add a homey touch to the pristine surroundings, a gentle reminder of the lives intertwined in this house.
My body aches pleasantly from the day's work. I sink into the freshly vacuumed couch, a sigh escaping my lips. The excitement of the day and the satisfaction of a job well done combine into a feeling of contentment that settles deep in my bones.
With the house cleaned and shining, and my new job waiting for me Monday morning, I feel a sense of peace and accomplishment that I haven't felt in a long time. I switch out the last load of laundry, and the aroma of fresh, clean fabric fills the air. It's a personal load, filled with some of my more delicate items. I scoop up the warm clothes and carry them over to the couch, a comforting routine that marks the end of a productive day.
Just as I start to fold a pair of shorts, the sound of a door creaking open makes me look up. Fowler stumbles out of his room, his hair a messy tangle and his eyes droopy with sleep. I hadn't even realized he was home, let alone that he'd been napping. I'm surprised I hadn't woken him up with all the noise I was making.
"Hey," I greet him, my voice soft, so as not to jar him fully awake.
He mumbles something unintelligible and shuffles over to the couch, rubbing his eyes. When he sees the piles of folded laundry and the pristine condition of the house, his eyes widen.
"Wow, did you do all of this?" he asks, his voice filled with surprise and gratitude.
"Yeah," I reply with a shy smile. "Felt like doing something productive."
He sinks onto the couch next to me, watching as I continue to fold my clothes. "Thank you, Emmie. This place looks amazing. And clean clothes? You're a lifesaver."
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at his praise, and I focus intently on folding a lacy pair of panties. I'm overly aware of what I'm doing, conscious of Fowler's presence beside me. The room seems to heat up a degree or two, and I glance up, catching Fowler's eye.
His gaze is fixed on the delicate lace, a look of pure lust in his eyes. I freeze for a moment, the world narrowing down to just the two of us and the growing tension in the air.
He looks up, and our eyes lock, the connection electric and charged. My heart pounds in my chest, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, an unspoken promise of what could be.
After a beat that lasts an eternity, Fowler breaks the tension, his lips quirking into a teasing grin. "Now you're just teasing me."
I roll my eyes, though I can't suppress a grin. "You're such a guy. They're just underwear, Fowler."
"Yeah, but they're your underwear," he teases, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Are those the pair you were wearing when you opened your door the other day and tried to seduce me?"
I laugh, tossing a folded shirt at him. "You're impossible."
He catches the shirt, laughing along with me. The sexual tension has transformed into something playful, the connection between us shifting yet still present.
We continue to chat and tease each other, the comfortable banter flowing naturally. Folding laundry turns into a playful game as we take turns flinging socks and shirts at each other, laughter filling the room.
The evening wears on, and the piles of laundry slowly disappear into neatly folded stacks. The house has taken on a warm, lived-in feel, the combination of our playful antics and the sparkling cleanliness creating an atmosphere that's both inviting and intimate.
Eventually, the last item is folded, and we find ourselves sprawled out on the couch, relaxed and content.
"You know, I never thought folding laundry could be this much fun," Fowler says, a soft smile on his face.
"Me neither," I admit, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "But I guess it's not about what you're doing, but who you're doing it with."
His eyes soften, and he reaches out, gently brushing his fingers across my cheek. "You're right. And I'm glad it was with you."
I feel a flutter in my stomach and look down, suddenly shy. The playful mood has shifted again, replaced by something else.
I could just be imagining it, though. I probably am. I'm just lonely from my breakup, still repairing my fractured self-esteem. I'm just horny, probably. Maybe it's time to invest in a good vibrator. Maybe then I will stop lusting after my roommates.
But Fowler's hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with mine. "You know, Emmie," he begins, his voice sincere, "I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do around here. It's more than just the cleaning and laundry. It's the way you make this house feel like a home. Yeah, we were a family before, but you've brought something into this house that we all needed."
I look up, meeting his eyes, and I see the truth in his words. I squeeze his hand, my voice catching as I reply, "Thank you, Fowler. That means more to me than you know."
We sit like that for a while, the soft glow of the evening enveloping us, our hands still clasped together. The unspoken connection between us has deepened, the barriers breaking down as we share this quiet moment.
Eventually, we decide to head to the kitchen and fix something to eat. Locke and Cruz walk through the door from work just as I start rummaging through the fridge.
"Whoa, Em, what's gotten into you?" Locke asks, his eyes widening as he looks at the tidy house and neatly folded laundry.
Cruz chuckles, dropping his work bag and coming over to playfully ruffle my hair. "You've been quite the domestic goddess today!"
"I had a lot of energy," I reply, my eyes sparkling. "Plus, I got some amazing news." I bite my lip, trying to contain my excitement.
Locke's eyes narrow, and he leans in, curiosity all over his face. "Good news? Come on, don't hold out on us!"
"Yeah, spill it, Em," Cruz says, leaning against the counter.
"I got a job at a bakery. Carol, the owner, hired me on the spot!" I exclaim, words tumbling out in a joyful rush.
Their faces light up, and they rush over to hug me, warm and genuine. "That's awesome!" Fowler chimes in, his manic energy taking over as he jumps around.
"Seriously, congrats!" Locke adds, his eyes gleaming with pride.
We chat and laugh as we prepare dinner, everyone pitching in.
Settling down at the table, the front door creaks open, and Marx walks in, his woodsy scent filling the room.
"Marx?" Fowler gasps, stunned. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at Disorderly."
He smiles, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "I was, but not anymore. Hired two new people."
I haven't seen him in his glasses often, but they add to his overall attractiveness. I catch myself staring and look away.
Marx walks further into the kitchen, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before glancing at the impeccable condition of the house. "The house is spotless," he says, a slight smirk on his lips.
"Emersyn cleaned it," Fowler volunteers, grinning like a kid who just got an A on his test. "And folded all our laundry."
Marx's eyes find mine again, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. "Impressive," he finally says, his voice low and tinged with something I can't quite place.
"You'll be even more impressed when you hear her news," Cruz pipes up, smiling from ear to ear.
"Yeah?" Marx looks at me, his eyes locking onto mine, almost daring me to share.
"I got a job at a bakery. It's something I'm really passionate about. Carol, the owner, offered me the job today," I say, my voice tinged with excitement.
His eyes flicker, ever so slightly, and for a moment, I see something that might be akin to pride. "I didn't know you baked," he says softly.
"It's more than just a hobby for me, it's a way I connect with people, a form of expression. The way ingredients combine to create something delicious, the way the scent fills a room, it's magical," I explain.
Marx's eyes don't leave mine, and he nods as if understanding something deeper. The room falls silent for a moment, all eyes on us. It's as if we're in a world of our own, and for that brief moment, everything else falls away.
Locke clears his throat, breaking the spell. "Well, with Em's newfound employment, I say we celebrate. Fowler, break out the wine!"
I laugh, exchanging knowing looks with Fowler. Every occasion is a wine celebration to Locke. We don't mind, though. Fowler grabs a bottle of wine and opens it, pouring everyone a drink.
As I take a sip of mine, I lock eyes with Marx again. His gaze is intense. I think about the last time I drank and what had happened that night. My skin flushes at the image of Marx helping me remove my clothes, his fingers gently brushing against my skin.
I quickly divert my eyes, feeling the weight of that memory hit me like a bolt of lightning.
"To Emersyn, for landing the job!" Locke says, raising his glass high.
"Cheers!" we all echo, clinking our glasses together.
As the wine flows and laughter fills the room, the mood shifts to a lighter, more celebratory vibe. But amidst the chatter and clinks of glasses, Marx and I steal fleeting glances at each other. Each time our eyes meet, it's like an unspoken conversation. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am—that there's something more here.