Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 31

Emersyn

The morning light seeps through the curtains, giving my room a golden glow. I drag myself out of bed, feeling heavy and clouded from the remnants of last night's events that refuse to fade away.

I stand before the mirror, seeing a different woman. The person staring back at me seems more alive but also caught in a mess of confusing emotions and desires. I shake off these thoughts and memories, but they stick to me, stubbornly lingering.

Marx. Just thinking his name sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fire I'm not sure can be put out. The kitchen, the darkness, his touch - it all mixes into a heady cocktail of emotion and raw passion.

I brush my wavy brown hair, trying to bring some order to it. Each stroke seems to match the rapid beat of my heart, a reminder of the blurred lines and tested boundaries.

I choose a simple outfit, a pink blouse with black pants, to bring some normalcy to my chaotic life.

As I put on a bit of makeup, my mind drifts to Marx's deep gaze that seemed to see right through me. I can almost feel his breath on my skin, a warm contrast to the cool morning air.

I grab a granola bar, unable to eat anything more. My appetite seems lost amidst the storm of feelings inside me.

As I head to work, the city is awake and buzzing with activity. Work offers a break from these overpowering thoughts. But even here, Marx's silence seems to fill the spaces around and within me, louder and deeper.

Why did he walk away? Why hasn't he said anything?

These questions mix with memories of his touch, his gaze. It leaves me with a mix of desire and doubt, leaving me restless.

During lunch, I sit at a quiet corner table, a solitary spot where I can deal with my thoughts away from the curious eyes of the bakery customers. Carol could sense something was wrong with me, but she didn't pry. I'm thankful for that. 

I try to eat a cinnamon roll, but it tastes bland.

The afternoon drags, the clock ticking slowly, echoing my heavy heartbeat.

Driving home, the city lights flicker sadly, reflecting my emotional state. The vibrant daytime hues give way to the evening's deep blues and grays.

Once home, the silence of the house is both comforting and suffocating.

I wonder if he's home.

I find myself in the kitchen, where Marx and I shared that intense moment. I can almost feel his hands on me.

I lean against the counter, closing my eyes, letting the memories flood back, as real and intense as the night they occurred. The warmth of his hands, the fire in his eyes, the electrifying connection we shared. Warmth starts to pool in the lowest part of my stomach and I know I need to stop.

But why did he leave? Did I do something wrong? Did he not want me?

Thinking this feels selfish. I already have Fowler, Locke, and Cruz in my life, even if those relationships are undefined. Adding Marx feels... greedy? Unrealistic?

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the doubts, the questions. I refuse to be consumed by the unknown, by the stretching silence.

I head to the bathroom, burdened by thoughts that seem to grow heavier with each step. In the shower, the warm water feels like it's washing away the confusion and longing buried deep within me.

The steam surrounds me, a moment to feel, ache, and desire. I close my eyes, letting the water trace lines on my skin that remind me of Marx's touch.

I lose track of time, caught in a sea of longing and uncertainty. Finally, I step out into the cooler bathroom air.