Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 8

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.