Emersyn

I'm vaguely aware that I'm awake, a sense of consciousness slowly seeping in. My skin, once ablaze with fever, now feels calm, the fire extinguished. I'm surprisingly well-rested, the physical weight of my illness lifted. Yet, my heart is heavy, burdened with the loss of the bakery, my dream, my job.

Beneath my head, the pillow is incredibly soft. It smells masculine and woodsy.

Wait. This isn't my pillow.

My eyes flutter open, revealing an unfamiliar room. This isn't my bed. The sheets, black and smooth, feel like silk or satin beneath my fingers – luxurious, but foreign.

My gaze drifts around the room, taking in the clean, tidy space that somehow feels dark, even brooding. The furniture, all dark wood, the walls a deep gray, nearly black.

A question echoes in my mind, where the fuck am I?

Before I can gather my thoughts to sit up, a strong arm encircles my waist, pulling me back against a muscular, firm chest. A surge of confusion and surprise floods through me.

I shift ever so slightly, cautious not to rouse the person sharing the bed. My breath hitches as I turn to face the sleeping figure beside me – it's Marx. His room, his bed.

Why am I here? Did I wander in my fevered state?

I take a moment to study Marx's face. In sleep, his features are softened, the usual hardness giving way to an unexpected calmness.

There's an urge to reach out, to trace the roughness of his beard, to explore the unfamiliar tenderness of his expression. But I resist, the thought laced with a mix of desire and hesitation.

I should leave his bed, figure out the mystery of my unexpected presence here. But as I contemplate my escape, I can't help but linger a little longer, taking in the rare sight of Marx's unguarded visage.

His breathing is even, a gentle rhythm that's oddly soothing. In this moment, he's just Marx, not the brooding, stoic figure he usually is.

This must be what he looks like in his most vulnerable state.

I like it.

The room itself feels like a reflection of Marx – strong, dark, and a little mysterious. The black silk sheets, the heavy blackout curtains, the solid dark furniture – it's all him, unapologetically so.

And here I am, in the midst of it, an intruder in his private domain.

I wonder if he's going to be mad that I'm here. I should probably leave before he wakes. Save us both some awkwardness.

Slowly, I edge away from his hold, careful not to disturb his slumber. My heart races with a mix of adrenaline and anxiety.

How did I end up in Marx's bed?

Before I can fully escape his hold, his strong arm pulls me back in, nestling me against his chest once again. He lets out what sounds like a contented sigh. But that isn't right. He wouldn't be content knowing that I'm intruding in his room, his bed.

"Marx," I whisper against his chest.

"Hmm," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

He isn't awake. Probably in that half awake half asleep state that I've been in for days. I'm thinking he's more on the asleep side of things.

His eyes remain closed, but the arm around me tightens just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. The warmth of his body seeps into me, a stark contrast to the chill of the room.

He pulls me closer and I can feel every inch of his muscled body against mine. And I mean every inch. And what glorious inches he has.

Fuck. I really need to get out of here. Or I'm going to end up doing something Marx will regret.

"Marx," I whisper again, a little louder this time.

His eyes open, staring through me. His grip around me loosens and I inch backwards. I feel like I can breathe again. Although, my body is screaming for his touch.

He's looking at me less like an intruder and more like someone who is supposed to be here.

I vaguely remember being carried while I was sick.

"Did you bring me here?" My voice is barely audible, a mix of curiosity and unease.

"You were burning up," he murmurs, his voice still laced with sleep. "Couldn't let you be alone. Fowler said."

Fowler said. So he was just following orders. Why didn't Fowler just take care of me then? Or maybe he did, but he's at work or something now. How, out of all the men in this house, did Marx end up my keeper? How long have I been in his bed?

"I don't remember much," I confess, my voice a soft tremble. "Just... fever dreams."

He nods, his gaze lingering on my face as if searching for something. "You talked in your sleep. About the bakery. And some other things."

The mention of the bakery brings a fresh pang of sorrow. "It's gone," I say, my voice breaking. "It was my dream job and now it's gone."

Marx's expression softens, his usual hard exterior melting away in the face of my distress. "I know, Emersyn. I'm sorry."

Marx, who always seemed so distant, is here with me in my most vulnerable state. His hand gently brushes a strand of hair from my face. It's unexpected and it takes everything in me not to flinch away.

This is weird. Not bad weird, but weird all the same. Marx, who has acted like touching me was like catching the plague is now touching me with such gentleness. Marx, who walked away from me multiple times, took care of me while I was sick.

I'm just really confused right now.

"Why...why am I in your bed?"

He looks at me, his eyes a soft blue in the dim light, the harshness that usually resides in them absent. "You needed someone," he says simply, as if his actions need no further explanation.

I find myself lost in his gaze, seeing a side of him that's always been hidden behind walls of stoicism and detachment. "Thank you," I whisper, my voice laced with genuine gratitude.

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "You would've done the same."

I'm not so sure about that.

Marx has always been a mystery to me, an enigma wrapped in a riddle. But in this moment, he's just a man who showed kindness when I was vulnerable.

"Marx," I start, my curiosity getting the better of me. "What else did I say in my sleep?"

"Oh, um," he stumbles over his words. "Nothing important. I don't actually remember."

I'm caught off guard by his fumbling of words and his clear avoidance. If he doesn't want to answer, then I probably don't want to know.

My face flushes at all the possibilities at what I could have said. I hope it wasn't anything too embarrassing.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.

"Hungry?" The question catches me off guard. "I... I don't know." My stomach feels empty, but the thought of food seems distant, almost foreign in this moment.

Marx shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, looking at me with a concern that's new to me. "You need to eat something. You've been out for a while."

I sit up slowly, the room spinning slightly as I do. "How long have I been asleep?" I ask, the reality of my situation beginning to sink in.

"Close to a week," Marx replies, his voice low. "Fowler and I have been taking turns watching over you. The other guys too. And Valarie has stopped by a few times. I was the only one who could take significant time off of work, though."

Close to a week. The words echo in my head. I've lost time, a chunk of my life spent in fevered dreams and darkness. "I can't believe it," I whisper, more to myself than to him.

"You were really sick, Emersyn. We were worried."

The concern in his voice feels surreal. Marx, the one who always kept his distance, now sitting here, watching over me.

"Thank you," I say again, my voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

He nods as he gets out of bed. "I'll get you something to eat. You stay here."

I watch him move around the room, his movements confident yet careful. He's in his element, and I'm just a visitor in his world.

The muscles of his back ripple as he moves. I wonder if they do that naturally or if he's flexing as he walks.

I giggle a little to myself at the thought.

As he leaves the room, I'm left alone with my thoughts. The loss of the bakery, my fevered illness, waking up in Marx's bed – it's all too much to process at once.

I lie back down, the silk sheets cool against my skin. I pull Marx's blanket up to my face and inhale deeply. It smells just like him. I wonder if it's his cologne or if this is his natural smell.

My gaze drifts to the ceiling, the shadows dancing in the dim light. I'm in Marx's room, a place I never thought I'd be, cared for by a man I never thought would care.

I wonder if this changes anything between us. Or maybe he was just making sure his roommate didn't die in his house.

Marx returns, carrying a tray with a simple breakfast. My stomach churns at the sight of food, a mix of hunger and nerves. I'm out of my element here, in his space. And him watching me eat with such earnest concern only heightens my unease.

I pick at the food, forcing myself to eat a few bites. Marx sits on the edge of the bed, his presence both reassuring and intimidating. I want to ask him about that night in the kitchen after my brother's wedding, and the night in the living room with Fowler, but fear holds me back.

Things seem good right now. Would asking about his feelings mess this moment up? I feel like I'm going to throw up.

"I'm really glad you're feeling better," Marx says, pulling me out of my anxious, spiraling thoughts. "We were worried. But, you seem to be on the mend."

"I feel a lot better," I tell him. "And thanks again. For taking care of me."

Silence falls between us, comfortable yet filled with unspoken words. I glance at him, noticing the subtle shift in his demeanor. There's a gentleness there, one I've never seen before. It's disarming, seeing Marx this way.

"Marx," I start, gathering my courage, but my courage vanishes when his eyes meet mine. "About the bakery..."

I could have literally said anything else. Why did I choose that?

He looks at me, his expression turning serious. "What about it?"

I hesitate. "I'm just... I'm scared, you know? That was my dream, my passion. And now it's gone. Just like that."

My words aren't a lie, but they weren't what I had been planning to say.

He reaches out, his hand resting on mine. "You'll find another dream, Emersyn. Another passion." My skin feels like it's on fire again, but this time from Marx's touch and not a fever.

"But what if I don't?" The words spill out, laced with vulnerability.

"You will," he says firmly. "You're strong, Emersyn. Stronger than you realize."

His confidence in me, a contrast to my own doubts, brings a small smile to my face. "Thank you, Marx. That means a lot, coming from you."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our conversation hanging in the air. Marx's hand still rests on mine, a comforting presence.

If handholding is all I can get from Marx, then I'll be happy with it. I would hold his hand everyday if he'd let me.

"Marx, I..." I start, then stop, unsure how to continue. How do I say what I want to say? How do I ask the hard questions?

"What is it?" he prompts, his gaze intense, urging me to speak.

I'm about to let the words tumble from me, every pent-up emotion, every worry, every question, but before I can, Fowler comes dashing through Marx's bedroom door.

"Emmie! You awake!" Fowler yells before tackling me.

I'm caught off guard by Fowler's sudden entrance and even more so by the force of his hug. "Fowler, I... yeah, I'm awake," I manage to say, still trying to adjust to his wild energy.

Fowler pulls back, his face beaming with relief and excitement. "We've been so worried about you, Emmie. You had us all scared sick." His words are punctuated with each kiss he places around my face.

Marx sits back, a slight frown creasing his brow, obviously not pleased with the interruption. "Fowler, give her some space," he says, his voice a mix of annoyance and concern.

Fowler rolls his eyes but obeys, sitting back on the bed, his eyes never leaving me. "You had a hell of a fever, Em. We thought... Well, it doesn't matter now. You're okay, and that's what counts."

I nod, still overwhelmed by the situation. "Thanks, Fowler. I appreciate all of you looking out for me."

Fowler grins, his usual carefree demeanor returning. "Of course. You're one of us. We take care of our own."

I smile, touched by his words, but I can't help but glance at Marx, who's been mostly silent since Fowler's arrival. There's an unreadable expression on his face, a mix of concern and something else I can't quite place.

"So," Fowler starts, clapping his hands together, "what's the plan for today? You feeling up to some company? The guys are dying to see you."

I'm about to answer when Marx interjects. "She needs rest, Fowler."

Fowler looks like he's about to protest, but then he nods, understanding the concern in Marx's tone. "Alright, alright. You're right. Rest it is. But when you're feeling better, we're throwing you a welcome back to the living party."

I laugh softly, the idea of a party both amusing and daunting. "I'll hold you to that."

Fowler stands up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You better. I'll let the guys know you're up and about. Take it easy, Emmie." He turns to Marx. "Take care of her, Marx. And no funny business," he adds with a wink before leaving the room.

Once Fowler is gone, the room falls into a quiet that feels thick with unspoken thoughts. I turn to Marx, a question burning in my throat. "Marx, about what I was going to say..."

He holds up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "Emersyn, you don't have to explain anything. You've been through a lot. Just rest and get your strength back."

His response leaves me feeling both relieved and frustrated. I want to talk, to understand what's happening between us, but I also realize that maybe now isn't the right time.

"Okay," I agree, though a part of me yearns to push the conversation. "Thank you, Marx. For everything."

He nods, his gaze softening. "Anything for you, Emersyn." He stands up and I'm worried he's about to leave, but instead he walks over to his dresser and picks up a basket. "I, uh, got you a few things while you were out. Figured you could use something to distract you."

A gift for me? I want to cry, but I don't want to scare him. He walks over, handing me the basket. Inside the basket are four books. I pick one up and the cover looks familiar.

"Oh my god, Marx, thank you," I say, pulling out the rest of the books. These are the remaining books in the series I was reading.

Marx gives a small nod, watching me with a hint of pride in his eyes. "Thought you'd like them," he says, his voice carrying a rare warmth.

I look back into the basket, finding more than just the books. There's also a small, handcrafted journal, its cover elegantly simple, and a set of fine-tipped pens in various colors. "And these?" I ask, holding up the journal and pens.

"Just thought you might want to write something down, you know, thoughts, feelings, or maybe start planning your next big dream," he replies, shrugging slightly as if trying to downplay his thoughtful gesture.

I'm touched by his consideration, the journal and pens speaking to a side of me that's always been drawn to writing. "Marx, this is... really thoughtful. Thank you."

He shifts uncomfortably, clearly not used to such gratitude. "You're welcome, Emersyn. Just... take your time to heal."

He stands up, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than usual. "I'll leave you to rest. If you need anything, just let me know. I'll be downstairs, just a text away."

As Marx exits the room, I'm left alone with the basket of gifts. I pick up the journal, running my fingers over the smooth cover. It really is a thoughtful gift.

I open the journal to a blank page, feeling the smoothness of the paper. The pens, lined up by color, tempt me to start writing, to pour out the thoughts and emotions swirling inside me. But for now, I just hold the pen, comforted by the potential it represents.

My gaze shifts to the books, and I can't help but smile. Marx remembered the series I was reading. It's a small detail, but it means so much. It shows that he listens, that he cares, even if he doesn't always show it in obvious ways.

I decide to start with reading, eager to lose myself in its pages, to escape from the reality of my situation, if only for a little while. As I read, I find my mind drifting back to Marx, to the complexity of his character. He's a man of few words, but his actions speak volumes. He's not just the tough, distant figure I thought he was; there's depth and kindness there, hidden beneath the surface.

My eyes grow heavy as I read, the events of the past week catching up with me. The book slips from my fingers as I drift off to sleep, the sound of Marx's voice and the warmth of his presence lingering in my mind.

I'm awoken sometime later by the sound of soft knocking on the door. "Emersyn?" It's Valarie, her voice gentle.

"Come in," I call out, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

Valarie enters, a bright smile on her face. "Hey! Fowler called me as soon as you were awake. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks," I reply, grateful for her visit.

She sits down at the edge of the bed, her eyes full of concern. "We were all so worried about you. But I'm glad to see you're up and coherent."

"Me too."

She glances at the basket. "Looks like Marx has been taking good care of you."

I laugh softly. "Yeah, he has. He's been... surprising."

Valarie grins. "That's Marx for you. Always full of surprises."

We chat for a while, Valarie filling me in on the happenings around the house and the plans for the 'welcome back to the living' party Fowler mentioned.

As Valarie leaves, promising to check on me later. Despite the loss of the bakery, I have a support system here, people who care about me.

I pick up the journal again, this time starting to write. I write about my fears, my hopes, and the confusing but exciting feelings I have for Marx. Writing it all down feels therapeutic, like I'm sorting through the chaos in my head and finding clarity.