Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 26

Emersyn

The living room is filled with the soft light of the setting sun, casting a golden glow on the worn but comfortable couch where I'm sprawled. In one hand, I hold a novel—a gripping romance that I'm finding hard to put down. My other hand is absentmindedly playing with Fowler's hair as he lies between my legs, his head comfortably resting on my lower belly.

The TV is on, the vibrant colors and whimsical sounds of a cartoon filling the room. Fowler seems engrossed, his eyes following the animated characters as they go about their zany adventures. It's a peaceful moment, a stark contrast to the emotional rollercoaster that has been my life recently.

"What are you reading?" Fowler asks, lifting his head slightly to glance at the book cover.

"It's a romance novel," I reply, my fingers still twirling strands of his hair.

Fowler chuckles. "Always a romantic, aren't you?"

"Always." It's a single word, but it seems to hold so much meaning in the context of this conversation.

We fall into a comfortable silence. My mind, however, is far from quiet. While I enjoy these moments with Fowler, the ease of our relationship, or whatever this is, I can't help but think about Marx. The way he looked at me when he picked me up from the corner store, the protective streak that both touched and confused me. It's as if there's an invisible thread pulling me in his direction, and I don't know how—or if—I should resist it.

"Hey, you zoned out there. Everything okay?" Fowler's voice pulls me back to the present.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just lost in thought," I reply, offering him a reassuring smile.

"About the book or about something else?" His eyes meet mine, and I sense that he's asking about more than just my current read.

"A bit of both," I admit. "Life's been a little complicated lately."

"Life has a way of doing that, doesn't it?" he says softly, his eyes returning to the TV screen but his arms tightening around my thigh just a little.

"Yes, it does," I agree, my voice barely above a whisper.

As we settle back into our respective diversions, him with his cartoon and me with my romance novel, I can't shake the feeling that this peaceful moment is just the calm before a storm—a storm I'm both dreading and anticipating.

And as much as I cherish the warmth and simplicity that I share with Fowler, a part of me is becoming increasingly curious about the complex, uncertain territory that seems to lie with Marx. It's a thought I don't fully understand yet, one that I'm not sure what to do with.

But for now, I push it to the back of my mind, choosing to savor the comfort and tranquility of this moment. After all, who knows how many more like it I'll have?

I flip the page of my book, diving back into the fictional world where the lines between love and complications are clearly drawn, even if the lines in my own life are becoming increasingly blurred.

The words on the page blur as I read, the characters in my book grappling with their own intricate web of feelings and misunderstandings.

For a brief moment, I envy them. Their lives, despite being filled with drama, are confined to the pages of a book, their fates determined by the stroke of an author's pen. Unlike me, their uncertainties will eventually be resolved, tied up in a neat bow by the time I reach the last page.

Fowler's gentle snoring pulls me back to reality. I look down to find him dozing off, his arms still wrapped around my thigh. The TV is now playing the end credits of the cartoon he was watching. I smile, captivated by his peaceful face. It's a rare, unguarded moment for him. Fowler often carries an air of casual confidence, but now, he just looks content, maybe even vulnerable.