Emersyn
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and scrambled eggs fills the air as Fowler flips the last pancake onto a plate. It's a rare day off for both of us, and the relaxed atmosphere is a pleasant change.
"So, any plans for today?" he asks, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter to me.
I take a sip, savoring the warmth. "Not much, just thought about doing some chores. You?"
"Same," he chuckles. "Life doesn't pause, even on days off."
We eat breakfast, trading small talk about upcoming movies. As I clear the dishes, Fowler checks the chore chart.
"Looks like I have dusting, and you have vacuuming," he says. "Why not do them together? Make it a cleaning party?" He suggests, already scrolling through his phone for a playlist.
A few seconds later, music blares from the speakers, filling the house with upbeat tunes. Armed with a feather duster and a smile, I start on the living room shelves while Fowler revs up the vacuum.
The music's tempo adds a playful vibe to our chores. Before long, we're both dancing more than cleaning. Fowler twirls me around, and I can't help but laugh. It feels good, this simple joy of shared tasks and uninhibited fun.
Just as Fowler dips me in an exaggerated dance move, my eyes drift upwards. Marx is standing at the railing of the loft, watching us. My heart skips a beat. Caught in the act of unguarded happiness, I feel a slight flush of embarrassment. But why? I have every right to enjoy my day, to dance in my own living room.
Yet, as my eyes lock with Marx's, I see something flicker in his gaze. Is it jealousy? Longing? Or am I just reading too much into a passing glance?
As quickly as he appeared, Marx retreats, heading back into his room. The music still plays, but the mood has shifted, like a record scratching in an old movie.
"Everything okay?" Fowler asks, noticing my distraction.
"Yeah," I reply, forcing a smile. "Just lost in thought."
We get back to cleaning, but my mind is elsewhere, tangled in the web of emotions that seems to get more complicated with each passing day. Was that look from Marx my imagination?
As the final song on the playlist fades out, Fowler turns off the vacuum. "Well, I'd say we've earned a break."
"Yeah," I agree, but my voice is distant.
As I put away the cleaning supplies, I can't shake the image of Marx looking down at us.
"Hey, Fowler," I start, waiting for him to look at me. When he does, I continue. "I was actually meaning to talk to you about something."
I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. The atmosphere is suddenly heavy with unspoken words. Fowler leans against the counter, giving me his full attention.
"Go on," he says gently, his eyes searching mine.
"It's about my brother's wedding. It's coming up, and, well... Marx offered to be my date," I hesitate, not sure how he'll react. "I didn't know if you'd be okay with it, given, you know, everything that's happened between us."
Fowler smiles, his eyes softening. "Emersyn, whatever is going on between us shouldn't stop you from having fun or living your life. If you want to take Marx to your brother's wedding, you should."
I feel relieved, but he isn't done.
"In fact," he adds, a sly grin creeping onto his face, "if you wanted to be with Marx—or any of the guys we live with—in a way that's more than platonic, I wouldn't mind that either."
I look at him, puzzled. "Really?"
"Yeah," he continues, taking a step closer. "Honestly, the thought of seeing you with them, touching you the way I've touched you... It's not a turn-off. Quite the opposite."
My cheeks flush, my skin heating up at his words. The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
"So, you're saying you'd be okay with... sharing me?" The words feel strange as they leave my mouth, like I'm stepping into entirely new territory.
His eyes darken, the playful air turning into something more serious, more intimate. "Absolutely."
I feel like I've been doused in cold and hot water at the same time, my emotions a whirlpool of confusion, excitement, and a tinge of fear. What am I getting myself into? How do these dynamics work in a house with multiple attractive men? And what does this mean for my relationship with Fowler and, potentially, with Marx?
Fowler seems to sense my internal struggle. "Look, Em, there's no pressure here. I just want you to know that however you want to navigate this, I'm on board."
I nod, grateful for his openness but still a bundle of nerves. "Thank you, Fowler. I need to think about all of this."
He smiles, understanding filling his eyes. "Take all the time you need."
And with that, we return to the remnants of our chores, the air between us now filled with a new set of possibilities and questions. As I wipe down the kitchen counters, I can't help but let my mind wander to Marx, to that look he gave me from the loft. Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of something more in his eyes? And now, with Fowler's surprising revelation, what does it all mean?
One thing is for sure: my life has just gotten infinitely more complicated, and I have no idea what my next move should be. All I know is that I'm standing at the edge of a precipice, and whether I take the leap or not is entirely up to me.
**
The evening finds me sprawled on the living room couch, my feet propped up on Locke's lap as he meticulously paints my toenails a shade of coral pink. The flickering light from the reality TV show we're half-watching casts a warm glow over the room.
"This show is so ridiculous," Locke says, shaking his head but smiling.
"I know, right? But it's like a train wreck—you can't look away," I reply, chuckling.
As he finishes the last toe, he leans back, admiring his handiwork. "Not bad, if I do say so myself."
"Thanks, you're a lifesaver. I'm terrible at painting my own nails," I say, wiggling my freshly painted toes.
The room falls into a comfortable silence as we both get lost in the on-screen drama. But my mind is elsewhere, thinking about what Fowler said earlier today. The idea of open relationships and sharing has been circling in my mind.
"Hey, Locke, can I ask you something a bit personal?" I venture, feeling a little awkward but trusting that Locke is open-minded.
He looks at me, setting the nail polish bottle down. "Of course, what's up?"
"So, you and Cruz have an open relationship, right? How do you... navigate that?" I ask, hoping I'm not crossing any boundaries.
Locke smiles, seemingly pleased with the question. "Ah, the million-dollar question. Well, from the get-go, Cruz and I knew we didn't want a traditional, monogamous relationship. We both felt like we had so much love to give, it seemed almost selfish to keep it all to ourselves, you know?"
I nod, taking in his words. It's similar to what Fowler was saying, but hearing it from someone who's successfully maintaining such a relationship adds a different layer of understanding.
"Cruz is an amazing person," Locke continues, his voice tinged with fondness. "He has this immense capacity for love and affection, and I think it's one of the most beautiful things about him. I love seeing him share that love with others. It doesn't diminish what we have; it enhances it."
The sincerity in his voice is palpable, and it makes me consider how much I don't know about love and relationships. I've dated before, but Lyle was my only serious relationship.
"Is there a reason you're asking?" Locke questions, bringing me back to the present.
I hesitate for a moment, my eyes shifting from Locke to the TV screen and back. Taking a deep breath, I finally say, "Well, Fowler and I have been... seeing each other."
Locke laughs, a genuine, hearty laugh that eases my nerves. "Emersyn, darling, you didn't think you could keep that a secret in a house like this, did you?"
I blink, genuinely surprised. "You knew?"
"The walls aren't exactly soundproof," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
I feel my cheeks flush a deep shade of red at the implication. The thought of Locke—or worse, everyone in the house—hearing my intimate moments with Fowler is mortifying.
"Oh, don't look so embarrassed," Locke chuckles, noticing my blushing. "Roommates sleeping together is as common as burnt toast. It happens."
Despite his reassurance, I still feel a bit embarrassed. I guess I was naive to think that our secret rendezvous had actually remained a secret.
"Actually," Locke leans in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a conspiracy. "Cruz and I have even thought about inviting you to join us once or twice. We weren't sure how you'd feel about it, so we never asked."
I'm momentarily stunned, my mind flashing back to that night at Disorderly when I was sandwiched between Locke and Cruz on the dance floor. The memory sends a surprising tingle down my spine. Could I actually consider a threesome? I've never done anything like that before.
"If you're ever interested, the offer stands," Locke says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"I'll... think about it," I respond, a bit shy but also intrigued.
Shaking his head in amusement, Locke settles back down into the couch. "You do that."
I take a deep breath, ready to dive into even murkier waters. "Fowler actually mentioned something similar today. He said he wouldn't mind sharing me. He even mentioned Marx specifically."
Locke raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. "Marx, huh? Do tell."
"I don't know, Locke," I sigh. "I have this crush on Marx, but he's like a sealed vault. I can't read him. I don't even know if he's interested."
"Marx is a complicated guy. I've known him for years, and I still can't say I know him well. He's pretty closed off. I've never seen him date anyone, never seen him bring anyone home. If you're looking to crack that vault, you've got your work cut out for you."
His words echo my own thoughts, adding another layer of complexity to the already tangled web of my relationships and feelings.
"Thanks for the insight," I say, genuinely grateful. "And for the toe painting, and the relationship advice."
Locke grins. "Anytime, Em. That's what friends—and roommates—are for."
I smile back, feeling a little lighter despite the swirling questions that remain unanswered. Maybe the answers aren't clear-cut, and maybe that's okay. For now, it's enough to know that I'm not navigating this complicated journey alone.
"Speaking of roommates," Locke says, standing and stretching, "I should go find Cruz. We have a date with a new Netflix series."
I laugh. "Go, enjoy your binge-watching. Thanks for the company."
He gives me a wink as he walks away. "Remember, the offer stands. Think about it."
As he disappears down the hall, I'm left alone in the living room. I glance at my freshly painted toes, then at the TV screen that's now asking if I'm still watching. I grab the remote and turn it off, plunging the room into a peaceful silence.
I sit there for a moment, my mind racing. Fowler, Marx, Locke, Cruz—each one adds a unique dynamic to my life, confusing yet enriching it. Fowler's words about sharing me, especially with Marx, replay in my head. My skin heats at the thought, and I can't help but wonder what that would actually feel like. Would it change things between us?
Then there's Marx. Every look, every word from him feels like a puzzle I'm desperate to solve. What did that look mean earlier today? Was it lust that I seen in his eyes, or just my imagination?
And now, Locke and Cruz extending an unexpected invitation, presenting me with yet another avenue of possibilities. Could I be a part of such a dynamic? How would all of this even work?
I rise from the couch, my steps slow and thoughtful as I make my way to my room.
Once inside, I close the door and lean against it. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye—just Emersyn, standing there, but at the center of a complex web of relationships and emotions. I meet my own gaze, searching for answers, for clarity. None come.
With a deep breath, I push away from the door and head to my bed. I slip under the covers, my thoughts still a whirlpool of 'what-ifs' and 'maybes.'