Emersyn

Waking up feels different this morning. There's a certain lightness in my limbs, a warmth in my chest. Stretching, I feel remarkably well-rested despite the late night with the guys. I glance at the clock and realize I've slept in a little, but the house is eerily quiet.

Slipping out of bed, I notice the cool air against my skin. I'm not quite comfortable enough to walk around in just my t-shirt and panties, so I quickly pull on a pair of shorts before heading out of my room.

The silence wraps around me like a thick blanket as I tiptoe down the hallway to the kitchen. My mind wanders back to last night, to Fowler's reassuring touch, his soft voice, that fleeting spark in his eyes. Was it just my imagination? I shake the thought away, focusing on the present.

The kitchen is spotless and empty. Maybe I should make breakfast for everyone? The idea starts to form, and I find myself opening cabinets and drawers, searching for what I might need.

"Okay, Emersyn, let's see what we have here," I mumble to myself, spotting a waffle maker and a box of Belgian waffle mix. My heart lifts at the discovery. I remember the taste of my mom's homemade waffles, and I feel a pang of nostalgia.

Checking the fridge, I find eggs, bacon, and some fresh strawberries. A grand breakfast begins to take shape in my mind. But then, doubt creeps in. Are these items communal? They don't belong to me, after all.

I stand there, indecisive for a moment, before rationalizing with myself. "They don't have anyone's name on them, so they must be for everyone," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "And if they're not, I'll just buy more later."

With that settled, I begin the careful process of preparing breakfast, moving quietly so as not to wake the others. The sizzle of bacon fills the air, mingling with the sweet scent of waffles. I lose myself in the rhythm of cooking, the simple joy of creating something with love. I may not be a good cook in most aspects of the word, but breakfast is one thing I can do well.

As the breakfast comes together, I can't help but feel a sense of contentment. It's strange how quickly this place has started to feel like home. It's barley been twenty four hours, but I feel like I've lived here much longer. I glance towards the hallway, half-expecting to see Fowler or one of the guys, but it remains empty.

With a soft sigh, I return to my task, hoping that my small gesture will bring a smile to their faces. It's the least I can do to thank them for making me feel so welcome.

As the last waffle cooks, I set plates and utensils on the island, a satisfied smile on my lips. I've done it, and the spread looks amazing. Now, all that's left is to wait for them to wake up and join me.

The thought of coffee pops into my head, and I make my way to the coffee maker, feeling the weight of the early morning silence. I reach for the coffee pot and start brewing a fresh batch. The rich aroma fills the kitchen, making my mouth water.

While the coffee brews, I start cleaning up the dishes I've dirtied, lost in the rhythmic motions and the gentle clinking of utensils.

That's when I hear it: the soft creaking of footsteps approaching the kitchen. My heart quickens, expecting it to be Fowler, Locke, or Cruz. But when I turn around, it's Marx standing in the archway, his white hair tousled, his eyes still sleepy.

I thought they said he was a night owl and a late sleeper? He wasn't here last night when we went to bed, and it had to have been past midnight by then. I'm surprised he's awake.

"Oh! Good morning, Marx," I stammer, suddenly feeling nervous and stumbling over my words. Why does he always have this effect on me?

"Mornin'," he grunts, his voice deep and raspy. His eyes flicker to the spread on the table, then back to me, lingering for just a moment too long on my chest. His eyes seem to darken for a moment before they lock onto mine. I feel my cheeks redden, and my heart starts to race.

Trying to calm my nerves, I focus on what I'm doing, my hands shaking slightly. "I, uh, made breakfast."

He grunts again, taking a seat at the island. "Looks good."

"Th-thanks," I stutter, glancing down and realizing why his eyes keep wandering. My nipples are pressing against the thin fabric of my shirt, making them extremely noticeable. A wave of embarrassment washes over me, but I force myself to act like I don't see it. "Coffee will be ready in a minute," I add, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marx simply nods, seemingly unfazed. But there's a knowing look in his eyes, and I can't help but feel exposed, especially after last night's towel incident.

I busy myself with the coffee, pouring two mugs and bringing them to the table. "Cream or sugar?" I ask, still avoiding his eyes.

"Black," he says, his voice still short.

I should have known he drinks his coffee black. He looks like the type of person that would.

"Right," I reply, setting the mug in front of him. "I hope you enjoy it." I can't help but add, "I made this as a thank you to all of you for making me feel so welcome."

He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "You didn't have to."

"I know, but I wanted to." I give him a small, hesitant smile, feeling a bit more at ease. "Please, dig in."

He begins to eat, and I finally allow myself to breathe, my nerves slowly settling. There's something about Marx, a quiet intensity that both scares and intrigues me. I watch him for a moment, still feeling that lingering embarrassment. Maybe I should excuse myself and put on a bra. Or maybe not, because then it would be obvious that I knew he was staring at my nipples.

The silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of Marx eating. I fidget, unsure of what to say, but the tension begins to break as I hear more footsteps coming down the hall.

"Morning, you two!" Fowler says, his voice cheerful as he strides into the kitchen. His eyes light up at the sight of the breakfast spread. "Wow, Emmie, did you do all of this?"

"Good morning, Fowler," I greet him, feeling the familiar warmth at his presence. "And yes, I did. Help yourself."

As Fowler loads his plate, Locke and Cruz wander in, both looking half-asleep but appreciative of the breakfast feast.

"Smells heavenly," Locke says, his voice soft and sleepy.

Cruz chimes in with a playful grin, "Waking up to this feels like winning the lottery!"

I laugh, feeling the energy in the room lift as everyone gathers around the table. They all dig in, and the kitchen comes alive with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of utensils. I feel less awkward with all of them here.

"So, Emmie," Fowler begins, breaking through my thoughts, "how are you settling in? Everything okay with your room?"

I nod, enjoying the taste of the food and the company. "Yes, everything's perfect. Thank you all so much for having me here. I really appreciate it."

"It's our pleasure," Locke says sincerely. "No need to keep thanking us."

Cruz winks at me, "But if you do want to keep thanking us, feel free to make breakfast like this anytime you want!"

Everyone laughs, including Marx, whose eyes soften for a moment. I can't help but feel a flutter in my heart at the sound.

"Em, you mentioned living in the city before. What was that like? I mean, if you don't mind sharing," Locke asks.

He says 'in the city' like it's this far away land and not just ten minutes down the road. We are technically still in the city, or at least within the city limits, but I get what he means. This house sits on the outskirts of the city, in the more open suburbs.

I pause, feeling a mixture of nostalgia and a twinge of pain thinking about my life in the city. The table falls silent, the guys looking at me with genuine interest.

"It's okay," I assure them, taking a deep breath. "I lived in an apartment in the city with my boyfriend. Well, now, ex. The apartment was small but cozy. Living in the city wasn't actually as bad as people make it out to be."

I pause, trying to choose my words carefully. I want to give them a little more insight into who I am, but I don't want to share too much. I don't want them to look at me like the poor girl who got cheated on.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Fowler says softly, his eyes filled with concern.

I shake my head, appreciating his kindness but wanting to share. "No, it's alright. I just have some negative emotions when it comes to my old apartment, my old boyfriend."

"Bad breakup?" He asks.

I nod slowly, my eyes dropping to my plate. "I mean, it wasn't what I would call a good breakup. But I don't really want to get into the details."

A pause lingers in the air, and I feel their eyes on me, full of understanding and support.

"Almost all of my belongings are still in the apartment," I admit, my voice almost a whisper. "He changed the locks, so I couldn't even get my things."

The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of my words sinking in.

"That's really rough," Cruz finally says, his voice gentle.

"I'm sorry you're going through that," Locke adds, his eyes full of empathy.

I force a smile, shaking off the dark cloud that threatens to overshadow our morning. "Thanks, guys. But let's change the subject. I don't want to ruin this wonderful breakfast with my drama."

Marx meets my gaze, and I see a spark of something in his eyes. "If you ever need help getting your stuff back, just say the word."

I feel a sudden warmth in my chest at his offer. Would he really help me get my stuff back? I would love to see Lyle's reaction if I showed up to the apartment with Marx. Or any of the guys for that matter. "Thank you. Thank you all."

Fowler reaches over and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, bringing me back to the present moment. His thumb grazes the back of my hand, sending chills up my arm.

"We're a family here," he says with a warm smile. "And now you're a part of it. We've got your back."

I feel my eyes well up, but I fight back the tears, overwhelmed by their kindness and the feeling of belonging. I've found something here, something real and genuine. I feel like I belong.

The conversation shifts, and we move on to lighter topics, but the connection I feel with these men deepens. They've seen a vulnerable part of me, and they've embraced it.

Eventually, the meal comes to an end, and the guys start to head off to different parts of the house. They offer to help with the cleanup, but I turn them down.

"Thanks again for breakfast," Fowler says, squeezing my shoulder affectionately. "It was wonderful."

"Thank you," I respond, my smile genuine. "I'm glad you all enjoyed it."

As the others file out, Marx lingers for a moment, his eyes meeting mine. "Thank you," he says, his voice soft. "It was good."

I nod, feeling a warmth in my chest. "You're welcome. Anytime."

"I was serious about helping you get your stuff back. Just say the word."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Marx nods back, something unspoken passing between us, before he turns and leaves.

I'm left standing in the kitchen, the clinking of the dishes and the gentle swish of the faucet filling the room. The laughter and warmth from breakfast still linger in the air, but a quieter reflection takes over.

As I scrub at the waffle maker, my mind drifts to the men in the house. Fowler, with his leadership and caring nature, always checking in on everyone. Locke, who's insightful and empathetic, ready to lend an understanding ear. Cruz, the playful one, always good for a laugh. And Marx, who's mysterious and reserved.

I glance down at my hands in the soapy water, noticing how relaxed I feel. How at home. A soft smile plays on my lips as I rinse off the last plate, but my eyes catch something else.

In the window seal, I notice a couple of plants, their leaves drooping and browning at the edges. They look like they're dying. Frowning, I walk over and gently touch one of the leaves. It's dry and brittle.

"What's happened to you?" I murmur, feeling a sudden urge to take care of them. They seem forgotten, left to wither away.

I grab a pair of scissors from a drawer and start to clip off the dead parts, careful not to damage the healthy bits that are left. I've seen Valarie do this to her plants.

"You just need a little love and care," I say, more to myself than the plants. I fill a glass with water and slowly pour it over the soil, watching it soak in.

As I water the plants, my thoughts return to the men in the house. Each one of them has a role, a purpose. And now I find myself wondering about my place among them. They've welcomed me with open arms, but what do I bring to the table?

I look down at the newly pruned plants, hoping that I've given them a chance to thrive again. They seem a bit like me – a bit neglected, needing some attention, but with the potential to grow.

"I hope you'll make it through," I whisper to the plants, feeling a connection to their struggle.

The house is quiet, and I realize I'm alone with my thoughts and these small, fragile lives I'm trying to revive. It's a small task, but it feels significant.

Maybe, like these plants, I'll find my place here. A place to grow, to flourish, to be nurtured and to nurture in return.

I step back, satisfied with my work, and wipe my hands on a towel. The plants look better already, more alive. And I realize that I feel the same way.