WHISPERS OF LOVE

8. Emma

Bergamot, Sandalwood and Patchouli.

That is Max's exact distinctive scent. The one on him, in his room, his bathroom, all over his clothes, in his bed and seemingly, all over me.

His scent is a captivating symphony, each note playing a role in the sensory orchestra that is Max. In the hushed silence of the room, I find myself captivated by the sight of Max peacefully asleep. The dim light from the morning sun casts a gentle glow on his features, softening the edges of his typically composed demeanor.

As I idly observe him, a myriad of emotions flicker across my face, revealing a complex mix of curiosity, admiration, and a hint of vulnerability.

His rhythmic breathing creates a soothing cadence, and I marvel at the subtle details that go unnoticed in the wake of our daily interactions. The rise and fall of his chest, the play of shadows on his face, and the way his tousled hair frames his features all contribute to the portrait of a man momentarily free from the burdens of wakefulness.

In this quiet moment, I'm grappled with the realization that Max, despite his confident exterior, is not immune to the vulnerability that comes with surrendering to sleep. The lines of tension that mark his face during waking hours soften, revealing a more serene version of him.

As I continue to watch, a tenderness creeps into my expression. Perhaps it's the vulnerability of his slumber or the simple realization that, in sleep, Max is stripped of the complexities that define him in the waking world. For a moment, the barriers between us seem to fade, and I'm left with a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the man behind the carefully constructed facade.

I remain quiet , an unseen observer of this intimate tableau, contemplating the significance of these stolen moments of observation and the unspoken connection that seems to form in the silent exchange between watcher and watched.

As I sit upright, Max's fragrance surrounded me, a constant reminder of his presence. The aroma of bergamot added a citrusy freshness, while the warm, earthy tones of sandalwood and the hint of patchouli lent a subtle, alluring depth.

I couldn't help but explore, with my eyes, the subtle details that defined Max's personal space. The room whispered secrets of his life, and I found myself entangled in the silent narrative it. Surrounded by the intimate presence of his belongings, I stumble upon his family pictures. Three of them gently placed on the bedside table located on my side.

I lean in to get a clear view of them.

The first was of him, an older couple, a guy who oddly resembled him, a young little lady and him. The second picture was of the older couple smiling, and the third picture was of him and the young lady and guy who resembles him. My conclusion is that it's his family.

Each image was like a portal to a world I never knew — a world painted with the warmth of family bonds and shared memories, frozen in time.

Smiles, embraces, genuine happiness — those were the scenes captured in Max's family portraits. As my eyes trace the contours of these framed moments, I can't help but feel a bittersweet longing unfurl within me. Max's family seems like a tapestry of love and connection, a stark contrast to the fractured relationships and distant memories that mark my own past.

As I immerse myself in the atmosphere Max created, I feel him stir beside me. Turning on his side of the bed, I catch him in the act of absorbing every nuance. Our eyes meet, and in that shared moment, our unspoken desires and vulnerabilities hung in the air like a delicate dance.

We're in the same bed, under the same sheets and comforter and I'm basically naked under his t-shirt and briefs.

"I shouldn't be looking through your things." I say before he makes assumptions that I'm a weirdo.

Max chuckles in response and surprises me by saying, "Good morning, Emma"  in his rich, heavy morning voice.

It's the most beautiful sound, beside his laugh which I only heard once.

He sits upright, imitating my seating position and my breath is stolen from my lungs.

He's shirtless, and he's beautiful.

Max clears his throat, noticing I'm staring. I shake my head clearing it of any dirty thoughts.

"About last night..." I start by saying. Feeling the need to explain to Max the many reasons as to way he found me passed out cold in the art room with no trace of sanity.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." He says, making this a lot less harder.

"I want to." I say, and he lets me.

***

Max, with his empathetic nature, listens as I pour out my heart, connecting over the shared understanding of longing for something more profound. I tell him about my mother's heavy punishments and how they've traumatized me as a person.

As I continue talking, and him listening, our exchange becomes a moment of intimacy, breaking down barriers that had kept them at arm's length.

In response, Max shares his own insights into the significance of family, offering a glimpse into the dynamics and love that shaped him ad I'm jealous. He had the best childhood and I didn't. Maybe that's one of the many reasons he's so obsessed into making my life comfortable and worth living.

As time passes, the exchange becomes a catalyst for a deeper connection, a bridge built on vulnerability and shared narratives.

As the morning unfolds, I find myself forging a connection with Max, one that transcends the boundaries of our individual pasts.

"Thank you for listening." I whisper more to myself than to Max.

Max doesn't answer, instead he moves closer to me, closing the distance between us. His hazel eyes reflecting sincerity and a touch of vulnerability, he completely closes the gap between us.

My emerald-green eyes mirror a mixture of anticipation and a flicker of realization. The room, filled with the essence of Max's signature scent, becomes a cocoon, encapsulating a moment suspended in time.

Our lips meet in a tender dance, a fusion of longing and the promise of something more, and trust me when I say, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced. My stomach churns and it's as if the universe whispers...

finally.

The kiss, a culmination of shared laughter, vulnerability, and the unspoken words that had lingered in the air, carried the weight of uncharted emotions. Max's hand gently cradles my cheek, and all my sense jumps out the window.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside doesn't exist.

As first as the kiss started, it ends.

Max is the one who pulls away and I'm left still trying to understand what just happened. He looks impressed, like he was waiting for this moment.

Looking up at Max, a faint smile plays on his lips.

"Emma," he begins, his voice a soft echo of the vulnerability we had shared. "I di-'

I don't let him finish, instead I move closer to him and place my lips on his.

Whatever that feeling was, I want more. If this is how it feels like kissing Max, then I don't want to stop.

When I pull away, Max is the one who looks surprised.

"You kissed... me." He looks startled, and sounds surprised making me smile. I nod in response, making sure to avoid his gaze.

"There's something about you, Max. Something that feels... right."