Chapter 156
Emily's POV
I woke slowly, surfacing from sleep like I was swimming up through warm water. For a second I didn't remember where I was or why my body felt so heavy, so anchored—and then I registered the solid weight of Alex's chest beneath my cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and Ethan's arm draped across my waist from behind.
They were both awake. I could tell from the tension in their bodies, the way they were holding very still like they didn't want to disturb me but couldn't quite relax either.
I shifted slightly, and Alex's hand came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading gently through my hair. "Hey," he murmured. "How do you feel?"
Sore. Exhausted. Scared. Safe.
"Okay," I whispered, because it was the simplest answer and maybe the truest one. Right then, wrapped between them like that, I actually was okay.
Ethan pressed a kiss to the back of my shoulder, careful and deliberate, like he was afraid I might shatter. "You need anything? Water? Food?"
I did a quick internal inventory—dry mouth, empty stomach, bladder screaming for attention—and nodded against Alex's chest. "Bathroom first. Then maybe food."
"Mason's already on it," Alex said, and there was something in his voice I couldn't quite identify. Amusement, maybe. Or resignation. "He's been up for an hour making breakfast. We told him he didn't have to, that we could order something, but—"
"He really loves cooking for you," Ethan finished. "Or maybe he just needs something to do with his hands when he's stressed. Hard to tell."
The mention of Mason made me twist slightly to look around the room, and both men immediately loosened their hold to let me move. The bed felt enormous and empty on the side where Mason must have been sleeping.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Kitchen," Alex confirmed. "He showered in the guest bathroom about twenty minutes ago. Should be finishing up soon."
I processed that for a second—Mason up early, showering, cooking, giving the three of us space—and felt a pang of something that might have been guilt or gratitude or just affection. He was so careful. So determined to prove he belonged there without actually demanding anything.
I extracted myself from the tangle of limbs with more effort than it should have taken, my body protesting every movement. Everything ached in that deep, bone-tired way that came from crying myself to sleep after a panic attack. The bruises on my face throbbed dully. My ribs felt tender where my father had grabbed me.
Ethan's eyes tracked my movements with the focus of someone cataloging injuries, and I knew he was seeing every wince, every careful breath. When I finally made it to sitting on the edge of the bed, he was already there beside me, one hand hovering near my elbow like he wanted to help but didn't want to crowd me.
"I'm okay," I told him, even though we both knew it was only half true.
"I know," he said quietly. "But let me worry anyway."
I leaned into him for just a second, letting myself take comfort in the solid warmth of him, and then I pushed to my feet and padded toward the bathroom. My legs felt shaky. My head felt full of cotton. But I made it there on my own, and that felt like a small victory.
By the time I emerged—bladder empty, face washed, teeth brushed—I could hear low voices from the direction of the kitchen and smell something savory and rich that made my stomach clench with sudden, fierce hunger. I paused in the bedroom doorway, taking in the scene.
Ethan and Alex had both gotten up. Ethan was pulling on a clean T-shirt, and Alex was running a hand through his hair in that absent way he did when he was thinking too hard. They both looked tired. Worried. Like they'd been awake for hours even though it couldn't have been much past eight in the morning.
"Go shower," I told them. "Both of you. You look like hell."
Alex's mouth quirked. "Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious." I crossed my arms, and the motion pulled at something tender in my ribs, but I ignored it. "You two stayed up all night watching me sleep, didn't you?"
"Not all night," Ethan said, which was not a denial.
"Most of it," Alex admitted. "We took turns. Someone had to keep an eye on—"
"On me," I finished flatly. "In case I had another nightmare. In case my father showed up. In case I fell apart again."
"Em—" Ethan started.
"I'm not mad," I interrupted, because I wasn't. I was just—tired. Tired of being the broken thing everyone had to tiptoe around. Tired of feeling like a problem that needed solving. "But you two need to take care of yourselves too. Go shower. I'd be fine for ten minutes."
They exchanged a look—one of those wordless conversations they were so good at—and then Alex nodded slowly. "Fine. But you stayed in the apartment. No going outside. No answering the door."
"I'm not an idiot," I muttered.
"We know," Ethan said gently. "But we were allowed to be paranoid right then. Humor us."
I waved them off, and they separated—Ethan heading down the hall toward the guest bedroom while Alex disappeared into my master suite with its attached bathroom. For the first time, I found myself thinking that my three-bedroom, one-living-room apartment might not be quite enough. Maybe everyone deserved their own bathroom.
Though in reality, most of the time they showered with me—all of us crowded into my inadequate shower stall, hands and bodies pressed together in ways that usually led to more than just getting clean. But occasionally, like now, they needed their own space. Their own moment of privacy.
I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. There would be time to worry about bathroom logistics later. Right now, I had more immediate problems to deal with.
I made my way toward the kitchen.
Mason was at the stove, his back to me, and I took a second just to look at him. He was wearing clean clothes—dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt that looked newly washed—and his hair was still damp from the shower. He moved around my kitchen with the easy confidence of someone who had spent the last few weeks learning where everything was, reaching for a spatula without looking, adjusting the heat under a pan with practiced efficiency.
There was something deeply domestic about the whole scene. Something that made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with bruised ribs.
"Hey," I said softly.
He turned immediately, and his whole face lit up in a way that was almost painful to witness. "You’re awake. How do you feel?"