Emersyn
I'm sprawled on the couch, lost in the pages of my fantasy novel. The world around me fades away as I dive into a realm of fae politics. Fowler is lying between my legs, his face pressed against my thigh, as he flips through the channels on the TV.
"Hey Emmie, you want anything from the kitchen? I'm getting up for a snack," Fowler asks, disrupting my focus on the book.
I look up and smile, marking my place with a finger. "No, I'm good, thanks. We literally just ate lunch."
Fowler grins at me, his eyes twinkling. "I always have room for a sweet snack." He winks, and I can't help but chuckle. The comment is both flirty and true—Fowler is always snacking, especially on sweet things.
He gets up, stretching as he does, and heads to the kitchen. I take the opportunity to dive back into my book, but my mind keeps drifting. Last night's dinner with Marx lingers in my thoughts, leaving me both excited and confused. What did it mean? Does he feel the same pull that I do?
I told myself I was going to stop this fixation on Marx, but here I am again, letting him take up space in every thought I have.
Fowler returns from the kitchen, a bowl of ice cream in his hands. "Sure you don't want some?" he offers again, taking a big spoonful.
"I'm sure," I reply, smiling. "But thanks for asking."
Fowler resumes his previous position, snuggling against my thigh as he enjoys his ice cream. I try to focus on my book, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, pulling me from my musings. It's a message from Valarie, asking how my day is going. I quickly type a reply, telling her it's a quiet afternoon, leaving out the emotional whirlwind that's been my last 24 hours.
"Who's that?" Fowler asks, glancing at my phone.
I find it cute and enduring that he's acting like a curious boyfriend. But I know he's asking out of genuine curiosity and not jealousy. It's a relief after the way Lyle treated me when we were together.
"Just Valarie. She's checking in," I say.
Fowler nods. "You should invite her over more. I really like when she's here," he says offhandedly before turning his attention back on his ice cream and the TV.
I put my phone down and try once again to lose myself in my book. But it's no use. My mind is a tangled web of emotions, and I can't seem to focus.
Finally, I close the book and set it aside. "What are you watching?" I ask Fowler, trying to divert my thoughts.
"Some action movie. Want to watch it with me?" he offers.
"Sure," I say, sliding my finger into his hair, rubbing his scalp. He lets out a contented cat-like noise and snuggles into my thigh.
As we watch the movie, my mind keeps wandering back to Marx. His invitation to dinner, the way he looked at me, the unspoken words that hung between us. I wonder what he's doing now, whether he's thinking of me too.
The movie ends, and Fowler gets up to put his empty ice cream bowl in the kitchen. "Another snack?" I tease as he walks away.
He laughs. "Not this time. Just cleaning up."
I pick up my book, considering whether to give it another try. But then I decide against it. My mind is too cluttered to focus on reading. Instead, I get up and head to the kitchen where Fowler is washing his bowl. "Need any help?" I ask, leaning against the counter.
"Nope, I got it. Thanks, though," he replies with a smile, drying his hands on a towel.
He glances at the plants above the sink, then turns to me. "Hey, do you know what happened to these plants? They look a lot better."
I smile, touched that he noticed. "Yeah, I saw they were dying when I first moved in. So, I've been watering them and giving them some plant food. Just trying to nurse them back to health."
Fowler looks at me, clearly impressed. "You did that? That's awesome, Emmie. I've been buying plants for years, but I always forget to water them. They usually end up dying."
"Well, not anymore," I say, chuckling. "They just needed a little love and attention."
Fowler grins, his eyes twinkling. "Thanks for bringing them back to life. The place feels more like a home with them around. And with you around."
I feel a warm glow spread through me at his words. "It was nothing. I was just helping out."
"We're lucky to have you around," Fowler says, his tone sincere.
I smile, touched by his kindness. "Thanks. It's nice to feel appreciated. To feel at home."
He leans in, his face close to mine. He kisses me before pulling away and wrapping me in a tight hug. "You're always appreciated, here. This is your home. Never forget that."
The hug is warm and comforting, and for a moment, all my worries fade away.
We return to the couch, and I settle back into my previous position, book in hand, Fowler lying between my thighs. I dive back into my book. I told myself I was going to spend more time reading, and so far I have.
I'm finishing up my book, Fowler lightly snoring in my lap, when the front door bursts open and Cruz and Locke walk in. They're carrying bags of takeout food. The smell fills the air, making my stomach growl despite having just had lunch.
Fowler stirs, the back of his hand swiping against the cheek before he wipes something off of my thigh. "Sorry, I drooled on you," he says.
"Hey, you two," Cruz greets, setting the bags on the kitchen table. "We got takeout. Want some?"
Fowler jumps up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of food. "You don't have to ask me twice," he says, heading to the kitchen.
I finish reading the last few sentences in the book and follow him. "What did you guys get?" I ask, peering into the bags.
"Chinese," Locke replies, unpacking containers of fried rice, dumplings, and other delicious-looking dishes.
We all grab plates and start serving ourselves, the atmosphere light and easy. Just as I'm about to take my first bite, Marx walks in.
He's freshly showered, his hair still damp. The moment he steps into the living room, I'm hit with his scent—woodsy and masculine. It's so overpowering that it even drowns out the smell of the takeout.
"Hey," Marx says, nodding at us. "Looks good."
"Want some?" Locke offers, gesturing to the food.
Marx grabs a plate and piles it high with food. "Thanks," he says, digging in.
"Going into the bar tonight?" Locke asks him.
"Yeah," Marx replies between bites. "I have to do the end-of-month inventory and budget."
"Hey, why don't we all go to the bar tonight?" Locke suggests. "It's been a while since we've all been out together."
Fowler looks at me, his eyes questioning. I nod. "Sounds fun," I say, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of spending more time with Marx.
"Count me in," Fowler says.
"Me too," Cruz adds.
Marx looks up from his plate, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. "Sounds good," he says. "I have to head out soon, but I'll see you guys later."
He finishes eating, puts his plate in the sink, and heads out. The moment he's gone, the atmosphere changes. It's as if we were all holding our breaths and can finally exhale.
"Wow, he ate that fast," Fowler comments, breaking the silence.
"He's always in a rush before work," Cruz says, taking another bite of his food.
I sit there, playing with my food, my thoughts racing. I think of the other times the guys and I went to Marx's bar together. The night that Marx punched that guy for getting handsy with me. And then my mind quickly turns to the night I danced with Locke and Cruz and what that led to. My skin flushes at the memory.
We finish eating and start cleaning up, the mood lightening as we talk about plans for the night. Despite the chatter and laughter, my thoughts keep drifting back to Marx.
As we wrap up and start getting ready to head out, I stand in front of my closet, unsure of what to wear. Tonight could be a turning point. Finally, my eyes land on an outfit I rarely dare to wear—a skin-tight, off-the-shoulder black dress that stops mid-thigh, showing off more skin than I usually do. I decide to go for it.
Slipping into the dress, I pair it with black ankle boots. A quick look in the mirror confirms it—I'm definitely stepping out of my comfort zone tonight. But I want Marx to notice me, to feel as tempted as I feel when I'm around him.
When I walk out to join the others, Cruz whistles. "Damn, Em, you look hot."
Fowler's eyes widen. "I think we're going to have to keep an eye on you tonight. Might have to beat away the entire bar."
I laugh, but inside, I'm a bundle of nerves. What if Marx doesn't notice? What if he does notice but doesn't care? "Thanks, guys. Let's go."
We make our way to the bar, and the moment I step inside, I feel Marx's eyes on me. His gaze is different tonight—hotter, more intense. He's usually so good at maintaining his composure, but right now, his eyes are burning through me. I feel naked, completely exposed, even in a room full of people.
Our eyes lock, and what I see in his gaze sends a jolt of electricity down my spine—primal need. My insides feel like they're melting, heat spreading from my core to the rest of my body.
Locke heads to the bar to order our drinks, and only then does Marx break his gaze. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. What just happened? Was it my imagination, or was there something in his gaze? Something different than the other times he's looked at me like he's hungry.
Fowler, Cruz, and I find a table and sit down. A moment later, Locke returns, holding a tray filled with shots and strong drinks.
"Cheers, guys," Locke says, handing out the drinks. "To a night we won't forget."
We all pick up our shots. "Cheers," we echo, and down them in one go. The liquid burns its way down, but it's a good kind of burn, one that lights a fire in your belly and makes you feel alive.
We all laugh and clink our glasses again. As I take a sip of my drink, my eyes find Marx's once more. He's behind the bar, mixing drinks, but when he looks up and our eyes meet, that same intense, electric connection is there.
It's as if the universe has suddenly shifted, realigning itself around this moment, this feeling, this man.
As the night wears on, the bar fills up. Music blares from the speakers, and people are laughing, talking, having a good time. But despite the lively atmosphere, I'm acutely aware of Marx's presence.
He's busy behind the bar, mixing drinks and chatting with customers, but every so often, his eyes meet mine. Each time, it's like a bolt of electricity, a silent promise of things unspoken.
The tension is a living, breathing entity, filling the space between us, heavy with anticipation. Every cell in my body is attuned to him, drawn to him like he is water and I am in the desert. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, this pull I feel towards him.