Emersyn

I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring from the nightstand, making me groan. I fumble for my phone to hit the snooze button but decide against it. Today's my first day at the new job, and I can't afford to be late.

I roll out of bed, still feeling the weight of yesterday's emotional rollercoaster. Mom's accusations, the visit to Lyle's apartment, Marx's support. Everything's a blur, but the responsibilities of life won't wait for me to catch up emotionally. I take a quick shower, get dressed, and head to the kitchen to make some coffee.

The house is quiet. My roommates are probably still asleep, enjoying the luxury of not having to get up at this ungodly hour. Locke and Cruz probably won't be up for another hour or so, and Fowler came in last night from working a double. He isn't due at work until this afternoon.

I pour myself some coffee and take a sip. The warmth and bitterness kick in, pulling me further into the realm of the awake.

I grab a granola bar from the pantry and head out, locking the door behind me. The city is still waking up, the streets less crowded than they'll be in a couple of hours. I make my way to the bakery, excitement, and nervousness battling inside me.

As I reach the storefront, I see the lights already on, illuminating the "SWEET BEGINNINGS" sign in soft, warm hues. I take a deep breath and push the door open. A bell rings overhead as I step inside, and the smell of fresh bread and morning pastries hits me. Man, I could get used to this.

The warmth and scent envelop me like a hug, and for a moment, I forget about everything else. This is a space of comfort, and I can already feel myself easing into it.

"Ah, you're here!" A voice comes from the back. I see Carol, her arm in a cast, navigating through the kitchen. "Good morning, Emersyn. How are you feeling?"

"Morning, Carol. I'm a bit nervous but mostly excited," I reply, forcing a smile to mask the jitters.

"Don't worry, you'll do great," she assures me, gesturing for me to follow her into the kitchen. "Let's get you settled in."

She leads me to a counter filled with flour, sugar, and all sorts of baking equipment. A woman around my age is busy whipping up some kind of batter. She looks up, her eyes meeting mine.

"Emersyn, meet Jenna. She's been with me for a couple of years now and knows this place like the back of her hand. Jenna, this is Emersyn, our new addition."

"Nice to meet you," Jenna says, pausing her work to offer a friendly smile.

"Likewise," I reply, taking in the new environment, excited but a little overwhelmed.

Carol explains that she's going to be out of commission for a little while since she hurt her arm, so she will be behind the counter only. "That's where you come in, Emersyn. Jenna will show you the basics, and I'll be here for any questions."

With that, Jenna takes over, showing me how to mix ingredients for the bakery's signature cinnamon rolls. As I'm stirring the dough, I feel the rhythm of the bakery take over. The ovens humming, timers ticking down, and the faint sound of Carol talking to a customer upfront. It's a melody of its own, and it's comforting.

Waking up before the sun, going to work, doing chores, and going to bed early have the week flying by. I love my job at the bakery, but I'm so glad the work week is ending. I'm exhausted, and I can't wait to hang out with the guys.

After saying my goodbyes to Carol and Jenna, I leave the bakery, still smelling faintly like cinnamon and vanilla. My body aches from the long week, but it's a good kind of ache, a reminder that I'm on the right track.

When I unlock the house door and step inside, the first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Usually, there's some kind of activity going on—Locke and Fowler playing videogames, Cruz messing around in the kitchen. But today, it's eerily silent. I notice Fowler's shoes by the door.

"Fowler, you here?" I call out as I kick off my shoes and make my way to the kitchen.

"Yeah, in here," he replies from his room.

He walks out, his hair wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower. "Hey, how was your day?"

"Tiring but good," I say, setting my bag down on the counter. "The bakery life is no joke. How about you? Where are Locke and Cruz?"

"They're spending the weekend with Cruz's family out on their farm," Fowler says, walking over to me. "Want something to eat? I was just about to heat up some leftovers."

I arch an eyebrow. "Farm? I didn't know Cruz's family lived on a farm."

"Yeah, his parents have lived out there since before Cruz was born."

We move to the kitchen, where Fowler heats up some chicken alfredo pasta that Cruz must've made before he left. We sit down at the dining table and start eating, both of us quiet for a bit, savoring the food and the tranquility.

After dinner, we both decide it's been a long week, and an early night wouldn't hurt. We clean up and say our goodnights, each retreating to our respective rooms.

**

A scream rips through the darkness, pulling me out of sleep. My heart races as I sit up, still dazed. That sounded like Fowler.

I jump out of bed and reach for the door handle, just as it swings open. Fowler's there, his face a canvas of dread and exhaustion. His eyes meet mine, and I can see that he's not himself.

"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice thick with concern.

"I had a nightmare," he mutters, looking down at his feet.

"Come sit down," I urge, pulling him gently toward my bed. We sit, and for a moment, the silence hangs heavily between us.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He hesitates before finally opening up. "You know, working in the pediatric hospital is generally great, but there are moments when it isn't. I've had to watch children die, and it haunts me. It sounds silly when I say it out loud." His words break as he speaks, and my heart breaks with them. Poor Fowler.

"That's not silly. That's human," I assure him, placing my hand over his. "You're carrying such a heavy burden."

He's quiet for so long. Nothing but his erratic breathing calming down. I rub calming circles on his back. I wonder how long he's had these nightmares. I wonder if he'd had them since I've been living here and I've slept through them.

"Thanks, Emmie," he says, finally meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"Don't worry about it. Really," I say, squeezing his hand for emphasis.

"I should go back to my room, let you get some sleep," he suggests, already making a move to stand up.

I stop him. "Just sleep here, okay? You shouldn't be alone right now."

He hesitates, but then nods, seeming relieved. "Okay, thanks, Em."

He lies down, sliding beneath my comforter while I shut my bedroom door and turn the light off.

I slide under the comforter beside Fowler, lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is bathed in darkness, but I can feel his presence beside me, a comforting warmth in the cool air. I listen to the rhythm of his breathing, a soft ebb and flow that lulls me toward sleep.

I'm acutely aware of the heat radiating off his body, filling the small space between us. Every part of me wants to close that gap, to offer him the comfort he seems to need. I think he's fallen asleep, his breathing has evened out.

Just when I think I might drift off too, he breaks the silence. "Em, can I cuddle you?" His voice is a soft whisper, tinged with vulnerability.

My heart skips a beat. I pause, thinking through the implications. I'm already affected by Fowler in ways I haven't entirely admitted to myself. But he's my friend, and right now, he needs comfort. And if I'm being honest, so do I.

"Yeah," I whisper back, "of course you can."

He moves then, lying his head on my stomach and wrapping his arm around my waist. The closeness sends a rush of warmth through me, a heat that reaches my very core.

Fowler adjusts himself slightly, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer still. Our breaths sync up, a silent exchange that speaks louder than words ever could. I can feel his heartbeat against my bare thigh, a comforting rhythm that matches my own.

My skin tingles where his touches mine. I wonder if he feels it, too. Quiet settles in around us. The pad of Fowler's thumb brushes over my hipbone. Back and forth, back and forth. The heat between my legs continues to grow. I need to think of something else, anything else. I need a distraction.

"Em, are you awake?" Fowler's voice is barely above a whisper, as if he's afraid to shatter the fragile atmosphere.

"Yeah, I am," I reply softly, my voice barely cutting through the quiet.

"Thank you for letting me stay here," he says, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that makes my chest tighten.

"You don't have to thank me. Friends are there for each other."

Fowler's hand moves from my hip until it's wrapped around my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh. I have to stop myself from letting out a little moan. Does he know what he's doing to me right now?

Fowler doesn't reply immediately, but his grip tightens just a fraction, sending another jolt of electricity through me.

"I should try to get some sleep," he finally says, but he doesn't move away. Instead, his thumb starts making lazy circles on my thigh, almost unconsciously.

"Me too," I agree, but my body feels like it's been set on fire. The air between us is thick with tension, and it's getting harder to ignore.

We lie there, neither of us making a move to separate, both fully aware of the unspoken connection slowly intensifying. My breathing becomes a bit shallower, matching the tentative rhythm of his thumb still tracing circles. The minutes stretch on like hours, each second punctuated by our synchronized breathing.

The logical part of me says I should break the contact, put some distance between us before the line between friendship and something more becomes irrevocably blurred. But then Fowler shifts slightly, pulling me even closer, and all coherent thought flies out the window.

I can feel him nuzzle his face into the curve of my stomach, and it's like an electric shock to my system. My hands, which had been lying idle, find their way to his hair. I thread my fingers through the soft strands, and I hear him let out a soft sigh.

That little sound undoes me. I can't help myself; I run my hands down to the nape of his neck, lightly scratching with my nails. Fowler shivers, his own hands gripping my thighs a bit tighter in response. The atmosphere feels charged, like a storm waiting to break.

"Do you feel that, too?" His voice is shaky, like he's laid his emotions bare.

"Yeah," is all I manage to say, my own voice tinged with a vulnerability I've never shown anyone.

We don't say anything more, both aware that our actions are crossing into territory that could change everything. Yet neither of us takes a step back, because in this moment, the intimacy feels not only natural but necessary.

Fowler's arms tighten around me, as if he's holding onto a lifeline. And maybe he is. Maybe we both are.