Emersyn
Balloons bob against the ceiling, and string lights cast a warm glow over the living room. Fowler flits around the space, making final touches to what he's dubbed the "Welcome Back to the Living" party.
"You didn't have to do all this," I say, my voice a mix of protest and appreciation.
Fowler spins around, a mock look of offense on his face. "And miss an opportunity to celebrate our very own Emersyn Hill's return to life? Never!" He winks, and I can't help but let out a genuine laugh, the first in what feels like ages.
I look around at the swarm of unfamiliar faces. I don't know anyone here besides the guys and Val, but Fowler made the guest list, so I'm sure these people are okay. Fowler asked me which friends of mine to invite and I was slightly embarrassed to tell him that Val is really my only friend, aside from him and the guys.
Don't get me wrong, I used to have a lot of friends. I was never popular or anything, but I had a good group. Slowly, one by one they grew distant until we finally stopped talking altogether.
Part of the problem was that I made Lyle my whole world. I neglected my friends. I turned down so many invitations that I no longer received any. I want to blame Lyle, but it wasn't exactly his fault. Maybe later on in our relationship it would have been. When he was controlling and jealous. But I stopped talking to my friends way before that.
I'm so glad I've found a new group of friends. And I'm glad Val loves them as much as I do. I don't know what I would do without Fowler, Locke, and Cruz. Marx, on the other hand, is still... well I don't exactly know. We're friends, sure. But it isn't like it is with the other guys.
In the days since waking in Marx's bed, his presence has been rare. His responsibilities had clawed him back to the bar. Honestly, I'm not sure he's been home at all.
My gaze drifts across the room and I find him leaning against the counter, his eyes meeting mine with a softness that's rare for him. He raises his glass in a silent toast, an unspoken welcome that settles a flutter in my chest.
I honestly didn't expect him to be here tonight, but I'm really glad he is.
I can still feel his arm wrapped around my waist, his chest to my back. The warmth that came from him.
Valarie, draped in a string of fairy lights, comes over with two drinks in hand, cutting off my view of Marx. "For the lady of the hour!" she exclaims, thrusting a glass towards me. Her vibrant energy is infectious.
I take the glass from Valarie, the cold surface foggy against my fingertips. "Thanks, Val," I murmur.
The drink is sweet with a hint of tartness, a dance of flavors on my tongue that somehow seems to mirror the complexity of my emotions. "This is good," I say, more to myself than anyone, but Valarie beams as if I've announced a grand revelation.
Fowler, now done with his hostly duties, joins us, his arm looping around mine and Valarie's shoulders. "Since I put up all the decorations, you two are taking them down, right?" he teases, nudging me lightly.
I roll my eyes, a smirk tugging at my lips. I playfully swat at Fowler's arm. "In your dreams, Fowler," I retort, the smirk on my face widening into a grin. "I think the guest of honor should be exempt from cleaning duties. I did almost die, remember?"
Fowler laughs, his head thrown back in genuine amusement. "Fair enough. You've earned a night off."
Valarie leans in closer, her fairy lights casting dancing shadows on our faces. "Besides, tonight's about celebrating, not worrying about the aftermath," she adds, her tone light yet insistent. "Let's get shitfaced."
"Fuck yeah!" Fowler agrees.
I nod, taking another sip of my drink, allowing the warmth to seep into my bones. My eyes drift back to Marx, who's now engaged in a conversation with someone I don't recognize. His laughter reaches me across the room, and I can't help the way my heart stutters in response.
Valarie grabs my hand. "Come on, let's dance!" she urges, her eyes sparkling with excitement. I let her pull me into the center of the room, where a small crowd is already swaying to the beat. The rhythm of the music takes over, and I find myself lost in the movement, the beat, and the energy of the room.
Dancing with Val, I feel a sense of freedom and release. Each move shakes off a bit of the heaviness I've carried for so long. I glance over at Fowler and Locke, who are engaged in some sort of dance-off, drawing laughter and cheers from the onlookers. Cruz, on the other hand, leans against the wall, watching them.
As the song ends, I'm breathless and laughing, the sound coming easily now. Valarie, equally winded, wraps an arm around my shoulder.
Fowler approaches us, a big grin on his face. "You ladies are on fire tonight!" he exclaims.
The evening wears on, and the house fills with the hum of conversations and laughter. I float from group to group, exchanging pleasantries and stories, the center of attention yet oddly detached.
As I talk, part of me remains anchored to Marx, watching as he moves through the room with an ease I envy. Eventually, our paths cross, and he offers me a smile.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and warm. "Glad you could make it to your own party."
I chuckle, the sound more relaxed than I feel. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, especially with all the effort Fowler put in." I gesture around the room, encompassing the balloons and lights.
For a moment, we stand there, caught in the eye of the storm, the party swirling around us.
Before either of us can say anything, someone yells for Marx from the other side of the room. He gives me a nod and heads off in the direction of the man who yelled for him.
The night continues, a blur of faces and voices, until the room begins to thin out, the early hours of the morning claiming the more sensible guests. Eventually, only a few of us remain, the die-hards and the roommates, sprawled across couches and chairs in a state of comfortable exhaustion.
I sink into a chair, my feet aching, my heart full.
As the last guest leaves, Fowler begins to round up empty glasses, his movements slow and languid. Valarie is already half asleep, her head resting on a cushion. Marx offers to help Fowler, but he's waved off with a tired but fond smile.
"Leave it," Fowler insists. "We'll tackle it in the morning."
**
I step out of the shower, feeling a lingering heaviness that clings to my limbs. The sickness might have left, but its echoes still haunt my body. The party's noise and laughter seem a distant memory now, everyone gone, the house silent except for the soft creaks of settling and the low hum of the night.
Water droplets trail down my skin, each one a reminder of the night's events. I think of the accidental spill, the sticky sweetness of someone's drink on my skin. My muscles, tense and tired from dancing and smiling more than I have in months, finally relax under the caress of the warm water.
I wrap a towel around me, rubbing my hair just enough to stop the dripping. The thought of blowdrying feels like a mountain too steep to climb tonight. Instead, I opt for comfort, pulling on an oversized t-shirt that hangs loose and soft against my skin, paired with a pair of comfy panties.
My bed is welcoming, the sheets cool and inviting. As I lie down, it envelops me in its embrace, the mattress hugging my body in all the right places. I sink into it, a sense of finality washing over me. My eyelids are heavy, each blink slower and more reluctant to open. The world is fuzzy around the edges, sleep beckoning with sweet promises of escape and rest.
Just as I'm teetering on the edge of consciousness, a soft knock at my door pulls me back. It's a gentle sound, almost hesitant, but it pierces through my drowsiness. I lie there for a moment, wondering if I imagined it, the silence of the house playing tricks on my tired mind. But then it comes again, a light tapping, persistent and real.
I should get up, see who it is, but my body protests, every muscle aching for rest, every bone heavy with exhaustion. The idea of moving feels impossible, a herculean task that I can't possibly undertake.
"Come in," I call out, or at least I try to. My voice comes out a whisper, drained of strength and volume. I'm so tired, every part of me yearning for sleep, for the peace and nothingness it offers. But the curiosity, the faint worry of who it might be and why, nudges at me, keeping the tendrils of sleep at bay. I wait, holding my breath, listening for the sound of the door opening, for the reveal of who's on the other side.
The door creaks open, a sliver of the hallway light cutting through the darkness of my room. My heart skips a beat, not out of fear but surprise, as Marx's figure fills the doorway. He stands there for a moment, a silent silhouette, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The room feels smaller somehow, his presence commanding and intense, even in his apparent uncertainty.
I push myself up to a sitting position, propping myself against the headboard. My body complains, tiredness wrapping around me like a heavy blanket, but my mind is suddenly alert, curiosity piqued by this unexpected visit.
"Marx?" My voice is raspy, sleep still clinging to the edges. "Did you need something?" I ask, squinting in the dim light to read his expression.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he shifts awkwardly where he stands, his eyes avoiding mine. He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "I... I can't sleep," he finally admits, the words tumbling out in a rush.
I blink, surprised by his confession. Why is he telling me this? But before I can voice my question, he continues, his words slow, measured, as if he's fighting against every instinct to keep them inside.
"When you were sick, and you slept in my bed..." He pauses, swallowing hard. "I slept. Really slept. It was the most peace I've felt in... I don't even know how long."
I'm taken aback, not just by his words but by the raw honesty in his voice. I watch him, the man who always seems so sure of himself, now standing in my room, vulnerable and open. He's tapping his fingers against his forearm, a nervous rhythm that belies his usual calm demeanor.
He looks at me then, really looks at me, his eyes searching my face for a reaction. "I was wondering," he continues, the words seeming to cost him, "if you'd mind... sleeping in my bed tonight?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and unexpected. I'm not sure what to say, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Why does he need me there to sleep? What does this mean for us? But then I see the look in his eyes, the earnest hope mixed with fear of rejection, and I realize this isn't about what it means or doesn't mean. It's about comfort.
I notice my own fatigue has receded a bit, pushed aside by the unfolding moment. I'm still tired, yes, but now there's a warmth spreading through me. A softening towards the man who stands before me, asking for something so simple yet so intimate.
I consider him for a long moment, then nod slowly. "Okay," I say, my voice softer than before. "Okay, yeah."
His relief is palpable, a visible release of tension in his shoulders. He offers me a small, grateful smile, and I can't help but return it, despite the confusion and exhaustion swirling inside me.
I attempt to slide out of bed, but the room tilts as I place my feet on the floor. My legs, unsteady and weak, tremble beneath me. A gasp escapes my lips as I sway, the world spinning in a disorienting dance.
Before I can crumple to the floor, Marx is there, his arms strong and secure around me. He catches me effortlessly, holding me close to his chest. "Woah, easy there," he murmurs.
I try to laugh it off, a weak attempt to diffuse the sudden intimacy of the moment. "Guess I'm more tired than I thought," I say, my words muffled against his shirt. The embarrassment creeps in as I realize just how vulnerable I am in this oversized shirt and panties, but Marx doesn't seem to notice or care. His focus is entirely on me, making sure I'm safe.
Without a word, he scoops me up, cradling me in his arms as if I weigh nothing. I'm too tired to protest, too spent to feel anything but the warmth of his hold. He carries me out of my room, up the stairs to his own. Each step he takes is steady and sure, a contrast to my own faltering strength.
As he walks, I rest my head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat a steady thrum in my ears. It's comforting, rhythmic, and I find myself syncing my breaths with each beat. The embarrassment of my earlier near-fall fades, replaced by a sense of safety and care.
When we reach his room, he gently lays me down on the bed. The sheets are cool and smooth beneath me, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. I barely register the dip in the mattress as he crawls in beside me, pulling the blanket over us both. His body molds to my back, chasing away the chill of the room.
My eyelids are heavy, sleep pulling me under with a force I can't resist. I'm on the edge of consciousness when I feel Marx shift behind me, his breath warm against my neck. He murmurs something, words too soft and muffled for my tired mind to decipher. But the tone, the gentle cadence of his voice, is enough to lull me into a deep, restful sleep, the kind I haven't experienced in far too long.