Emersyn

"And you've just been sleeping in his room every night? Just sleeping?" Valarie's eyebrow arches as we put on clothes for our night out at the bar.

"Yes, just sleep," I confirm, my voice tinged with a hint of exasperation. I've answered this question a million times already.

For over a week now, sleeping in Marx's bed has become my new normal. We've never really discussed it; it's evolved into an unspoken ritual. Each night, after he comes home from the bar, he comes to my room. I'm usually already asleep, but it doesn't stop him. His arms, strong and warm, lift me effortlessly, carrying me to his room as if I'm as light as the sheets we later share.

I've noticed the change in him, the subtle lightening of his spirit. He moves with an ease that wasn't there before, his smiles more frequent, more genuine. It seems my presence, our shared slumber, brings him a peace that echoes throughout his day.

And I can't deny the selfish part of me that revels in the arrangement. There's something profoundly comforting about sleeping beside him. His steady breathing, the warmth of his body, the safety of his room. I find myself sinking into deeper, more peaceful sleep, a luxury I hadn't realized I'd been missing until now.

"Earth to Emersyn," Valarie's voice slices through my daze, her hand waving animatedly in front of my face.

I blink, pulled abruptly from my thoughts of Marx. She must have been speaking while I was lost in the comforting images of our nightly routine. A flush of embarrassment colors my cheeks. "Sorry, I was miles away," I admit, shaking my head as if to clear the lingering fog of my daydreams. "What were you saying?"

Valarie looks at me, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Just making sure you're still with me here," she teases gently.

Valarie's knowing smile fades into a playful roll of her eyes as she turns back to the mirror, adjusting her costume. I follow suit, standing beside her to examine our reflections.

Tonight, we're embracing the Halloween spirit at Disorderly, each of us donning a costume that's a reflection of our personalities.

Valarie, ever the bold and vibrant one, is dressed as a modern take on a pirate. Her outfit is a blend of edgy and seductive—a fitted, off-the-shoulder white blouse that clings to her silhouette, paired with a short black skirt adorned with gold accents. A faux leather belt cinches her waist, and knee-high boots complete the look.

Her hair is teased into wild waves, a bandana tied around her head, and her makeup is dramatic, with smoky eyes and bold red lips. She looks fierce.

I, on the other hand, have opted for something a bit different. I'm dressed as a woodland fairy, a costume that's more whimsical and dreamy.

A delicate, leaf-patterned dress in shades of green and brown clings to my body, its hemline fluttering just above my knees. The fabric is light, almost ethereal, and it moves with me like a second skin. Delicate wings, iridescent and fragile, are attached to my back, catching the light as I move.

My hair is styled in loose, flowing waves, adorned with small flowers, and my makeup is soft, with a focus on shimmering, natural tones.

We both turn, examining ourselves from different angles. "You look amazing, Val," I comment, my eyes taking in her reflection. She's a picture of confidence and allure, a force to be reckoned with.

"And you look stunning, Em," she replies, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror. "Like a creature straight out of a fairytale."

We share a smile, our excitement for the night ahead evident in our expressions.

"Ready to turn some heads at Disorderly?" Valarie asks, her grin infectious.

I nod, my own excitement bubbling up. "Absolutely. Let's show them how it's done."

With one last glance in the mirror, we grab our purses and head out the door.

**

The excitement in the air at Disorderly is palpable, charged with the electricity of Halloween night. As we push open the door, the familiar clamor of laughter, music, and conversation greets us.

The bar is alive, a sea of color and creativity, each patron's attire more elaborate than the last. But it's the figure behind the bar that captures my attention.

Marx stands there, his costume a striking counterpoint to my own ethereal fairy. He's dressed as a woodland ranger, a guardian of the forests and creatures within.

Did he do this on purpose? I didn't tell anyone what I was dressing up as. I think back to my brother's wedding when Marx's shirt was the same exact color as my dress. This cant' be a coincidence, can it?

His outfit is a mix of deep greens and browns, with a cloak draped over his shoulders, giving him an air of mystery and authority. A faux leather quiver rests at his side, and a detailed, ornate bow hangs on the wall behind him. His hair is slightly tousled and his eyes, sharp and penetrating, lock onto mine the moment we enter.

The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of apprehension and thrill. It's as if he's seeing through the costume, straight to the core of me, his eyes burning into my skin.

Valarie, sensing my momentary pause, tugs at my arm, pulling me back to the present. "Come on, fairy queen, let's join the others," she says, her voice a blend of excitement and impatience.

We weave through the crowd, heading towards the table where Fowler, Cruz, and Locke are seated. Each of them is dressed in their own unique costume.

Fowler is a dashing musketeer, complete with a feathered hat, a rapier at his side, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His costume is elaborate, with intricate lace and embroidery.

Locke is dressed as a classic firefighter, his costume detailed and realistic. The uniform fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong build.

Cruz has chosen an elaborate steampunk inventor outfit. Goggles rest atop his head, a vest covered in gears and gadgets, and trousers tucked into high boots. His costume is a maze of brass and leather.

As we reach the table, the boys' reactions are immediate and animated. Fowler stands, his musketeer charm in full effect, bowing deeply. "My lady," he addresses Valarie with a grin, then turns to me, "and my fair forest spirit. You both look enchanting!"

Locke, in his firefighter gear, chuckles, raising an eyebrow at Fowler's theatrics. "Don't mind him, he's been practicing that bow all week," he teases, then gives us a warm smile. "You two really went all out, huh?"

Cruz, with his steampunk goggles pushed up onto his forehead, leans back in his chair, admiring our costumes. "Impressive," he nods, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You two might just steal the show tonight."

Valarie laughs, taking a seat with a flourish of her pirate skirt. "As if there was any doubt," she says, her confidence infectious. "And look at you guys! Ready to save damsels, invent contraptions, or... swashbuckle, I suppose?"

I slide into a chair next to her, still aware of Marx's gaze from across the room. "Thanks, guys," I say, feeling a bit shy under their compliments. "Everyone's costumes are amazing."

Conversation flows easily as we catch up, teasing and laughter filling the gaps. The mood is light, the air filled with the excitement of the holiday. But my attention keeps straying back to Marx, and his ranger attire.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe his costume isn't what I think it is. Maybe this is just a coincidence.

"So, Em, how's it feel to be the most ethereal creature in here?" Fowler asks, nudging me gently out of my reverie.

I smile, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

Valarie leans over, whispering conspiratorially, "And how does it feel to have a certain ranger's eyes locked on you all night?"

My heart skips a beat, and I glance back at Marx. He's still watching, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he's part of our conversation from across the room. "It's... nice," I admit, the word barely a whisper.

Valarie giggles, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Nice, huh? That's one way to put it."

Locke leans forward, a curious look on his face. "Is there something going on between you two?" he asks, not missing a beat.

I feel my cheeks warm further, caught off-guard by the directness of the question. But I guess, if anything, we are a pretty open group. No topics are off-topic.

"No, nothing like that," I stammer, trying to sound convincing. "We're just... friends."

Fowler winks at me, his expression playful. "Friends who share a bed every night. Very platonic, indeed."

Cruz chuckles, raising his glass. "To friends then," he toasts, and we all join in, the clink of glasses punctuating the moment.

The banter continues, with each person sharing stories about their week and the usual teasing that comes with our group's dynamics. But through it all, my mind keeps drifting back to Marx.

Eventually, Valarie nudges me again. "You should go talk to him," she suggests softly, nodding towards Marx.

I hesitate, my pulse quickening at the thought. "I don't know..."

"Go on, Em," Cruz encourages. "He's been stealing glances all night. Besides, you both look like you stepped out of the same fairytale."

Gathering my courage, I stand up, smoothing down my dress. "Okay, I'll go."

As I make my way to the bar, the crowd parts slightly, allowing me a clear path to Marx. He watches me approach, his expression unreadable, but his eyes softening as I get closer.

Just as I'm about halfway across the bar, a shadow looms before me, momentarily startling me out of my determined stride. A figure in a dark, elaborate mask steps into my path, his movements deliberate, almost theatrical. For a second, I'm taken aback by the sudden intrusion, my heart leaping into my throat.

I try to step around him, but he mirrors my movement, blocking my way again. Annoyance flickers through me, my excitement to reach Marx now mingled with irritation. "Excuse me," I say, my voice firm, trying to sidestep him once more.

That's when he speaks, and the sound of his voice sends a jolt of recognition through me. It's distorted slightly by the mask, but unmistakably familiar. "Emersyn," he says, a note of something unreadable in his tone.

My stomach drops. It's Lyle. The last person I expected—or wanted—to encounter tonight. I take a moment, steadying my breath, reminding myself that I'm not the same person I was when we were together. I'm stronger now, more confident.

"Lyle," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his head tilting slightly as if considering his words. "I saw you from across the bar," he finally says. "You look... different."

The way he says it, it's not exactly a compliment, but it's not an insult either. It's like he's seeing me for the first time in a long time, and he's not sure what to make of the person standing before him.

I resist the urge to look back at Marx, to draw strength from his presence. This is something I need to handle on my own. "I am different," I tell Lyle, my voice steady. "A lot has changed."

He nods slowly, his gaze lingering on me for a moment.

The mask hides his expression, but I can feel the weight of his stare, the tension between us palpable. "I've heard things," he continues, his voice low. "About how much of a slut you've been since I broke up with you."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and for a split second, I'm back to that devastating moment I discovered his betrayal—the pain, the disbelief, the utter heartbreak. But the memory also reignites the fire within me, the resolve that I've rebuilt piece by piece.

My voice is steady, but cold, as I reply, "Whatever you've heard, Lyle, it's none of your business. You lost the right to comment on my life the moment you betrayed everything we had."

I can see the surprise in his stance, perhaps not expecting the steel in my response. I attempt to maneuver past him once more, but this time, he grabs my arm, holding me back with a firm grip. His breath is hot against my ear as he leans in. "You're being a real bitch right now, you know that?"

My voice is sharp, laced with anger and defiance. "Lyle, you have about thirty seconds to let go of me." But before my words even register for him, Marx is suddenly there.

In one swift motion, he pulls Lyle away. Lyle's shirt is bunched in his firm grip. "You don't touch her," Marx growls, his voice icy but calm, his eyes dark with unmistakable anger. In an instant, the tension escalates, the air charged with the imminent threat of violence​​.

With no effort, Marx drags Lyle toward the door, his grip unyielding. The crowd parts, a mixture of curiosity and concern etching the faces around us. Lyle's friends, who I recognize from past encounters, rush towards the commotion, their hands up, voices pitching towards de-escalation. "Hey, hey, calm down!" one of them calls out, trying to reach for Lyle.

But it's too late. Marx, with a firm shove, sends Lyle stumbling outside onto the sidewalk. The door swings shut behind them, but through the glass, I see Marx's figure, tall and imposing. "You're no longer welcome in my bar," Marx states clearly, loudly, his voice carrying even through the closed door.

Marx turns to come back inside, but Lyle, his pride wounded, his voice raised in anger, yells something. I can't hear what it is, but I swear he says my name.

In a heartbeat, Marx's demeanor shifts, and with a swift motion, he turns and lands a solid punch on Lyle's jaw. The sound is sharp, a crack that echoes.

Lyle's friends rush outside, their intentions shifting from peacekeeping to joining the fray. I run out behind them, my heart racing, Valarie close on my heels.

"Oh my god, what do I do?" I ask, turning to Val.

"Let Marx handle it," she replies simply.

So I do.

Outside, the air is thick with tension and the impending chaos of a fight. Locke, Cruz, and Fowler burst through the door moments after us, their expressions a mix of concern and readiness. I notice that Fowler has somehow obtained a baseball bat, gripping it with less certainty than the others.

As Lyle's friends move in, Locke and Cruz step forward, their movements measured and precise. Marx, still standing over a dazed Lyle, turns to face the new threats. The fight erupts into a flurry of motion. Fists fly, bodies grapple, and amidst it all, Fowler swings the bat with more determination than skill, his smaller and leaner build making him quicker but less powerful.

Valarie and I stand back, our shouts drowned out by the cacophony of the altercation. A crowd starts forming around us.

Every punch thrown, every grunt and shout, sends a jolt of fear and adrenaline through me. This isn't just a fight; it's a physical manifestation of the pent-up anger and hurt that Lyle's presence has brought to the surface.

Locke manages to take down Lyle's largest friend. Benny, I think his name is. Or maybe Danny. Whatever his name is, Locke is now pinning him against the wall.

Cruz dodges and lands precise strikes on the guy he's fighting.

And Marx, with a fury born of protection and rage, dominates the scene, his every move driving back those who dare to approach.

Fowler, for his part, does his best to hold his own, using the bat to create distance, his lack of fighting prowess compensated by his fierce loyalty and unexpected courage.

As the brawl continues, sirens wail in the distance, a reminder of the impending consequences of this street fight. I know we need to end this now, to pull our friends back, to retreat before it escalates further. My voice finally breaks through the chaos, calling out to them, pleading for them to stop.

"Guys, the cops are coming! You've got to stop!"

They can't hear me. Or if they can, they don't listen.

It's as if my pleas fall on deaf ears, their bloodlust not yet sated.

Suddenly, one of Lyle's friends rushes forward, throwing himself at Fowler. A loud thud fills the air, followed by the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.

"No!" I shout, panic rising in my chest.

The force of the blow sends Fowler reeling, a crimson stain blooming across his forehead.

Before I can think to act, Valarie tackles the guy from behind. She grabs a fistful of his hair, shoving his face against the pavement. "That's enough, motherfucker," she snarls, her voice cold and hard.

Finally, the commotion dies down, and we manage to pull the guys apart. The police sirens are louder now, the lights flashing through the buildings.

We hurry into the bar, the tension finally breaking. We all huddle around the table, trying to catch our breaths, assessing our injuries.

"Holy shit, Fowler," Locke breathes, examining his friend's bloody forehead.

Fowler grins, a wild and feral thing. "That was fucking amazing," he pants.