Mary Louise Emerson

Wednesday. Alaura wakes to the soft, honeyed glow of morning light spilling through the windows, golden beams stretching across the dark brick walls and pooling onto the smooth concrete floor.

Cocooned in the covers, the warmth of the apartment clings heavily around her. With a lazy push, she kicks the blankets away, letting them gather near the foot of the bed. Her apartment is sealed from the winter air, exactly as she expected it to be.

She doesn’t have to rise from bed to check. Doesn’t need to look for the almost-invisible marks left behind by his shoes. She can feel it—the echo of him still imprinted in the air.

Alaura exhales slowly, rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling with a small, satisfied smile, sweetened by the thrill of knowing she’d been right.

With no rush, she slips from bed and saunters into the kitchen, moving through the motions of her morning routine. She takes her steaming cup of coffee and breakfast to her desk, eases into her chair, and opens her first email of the day.

Because for now—it’s still her move.

As expected, Xander makes his appearance later that evening. His presence rolls over her in a slow sweep of awareness that crawls along her skin and coils deep at the base of her spine. Even after all these nights, that first inhale still hits differently, her senses tuning to him the way a blade hums under the touch of a whetstone.

Alaura finished work earlier than usual, her restless energy driving her to the gym. After, she showered off the sweat and ate a quiet dinner alone.

Now, she is waiting on the couch for him, wearing a silk forest-green robe, tied loosely at the waist, the hem teasing just above her knees.

The glass door is already cracked, wide enough for more than just an invitation to watch. An invitation to interact. This isn’t coy. This is a new play, a conscious escalation in their game.

She goes about her night like she isn’t fully aware of what she’s done. As if she’s not testing how far he is willing to go. Legs tucked beneath her, firelight flaring across her skin, she picks up her book and waits.

Bedtime creeps closer, and he still hasn’t taken the bait. The door remains open. The air between them remains dense. But Xander never crosses the distance.

Her gaze eases to the rooftop, the desire to get a glimpse of him again slipping through before she can contain it, something quiet inside her reaching across the distance.

It’s only happened twice—once on the dance floor at Veritas, when the world had blurred around them, and once outside her apartment when the scent of blood clung to her skin. Still, his face haunts her thoughts like a half-remembered dream.

As if he senses her longing, she feels him beginning to move—a subtle ripple in the night. Stepping closer to the edge of the roof, his silhouette is etched against the muted shimmer of the city. The dark shape becoming clearer. The width of his shoulders. The unmistakable height. The stillness that belongs only to him. Close enough now to confirm he’s really there.

Alaura instantly stands, heart pounding at the strange certainty he answered her. But instead of retreating, she takes a few steps forward. Sliding the door fully open and stepping onto the balcony, the night air is cold against her skin, but barely registers.

Barefoot, she crosses the balcony until her hands rest lightly on the rough brick railing, peering out toward him, standing far enough away to keep the balance intact.

She feels the moment his restraint snaps into place, the steel edge of control slamming down so hard it echoes through her bones. He wants to come to her. Wants it so badly it bleeds into the night, filling the air between them until it’s hard to breathe.

And the more she feels his struggle, the harder it becomes to ignore her own. Her fingers trace the edge of the brick, a silent farewell, before stepping back inside. Afraid that if she pushes too hard, he will disappear.

The door closes behind her—not all the way—but enough.

Readying for bed, she clicks the lights off one by one, then climbs onto the mattress, the blankets cool and crisp around her, mind far too focused on their closeness to quiet easily.

But eventually, sleep takes her—

Three nights in a row was already too much. But a fourth…

Xander told himself tonight would be different. That he would put distance back where it belonged before returning to her became instinct instead of choice.

And yet—he is here, sitting on the roof waiting for her to go to sleep.

He noticed immediately the door cracked wider than usual. And she’d done it while she was still awake. Not as a silent invitation after she’d gone to sleep, but an intentional opening, wide enough for him to walk through and join her.

When he arrived, Alaura didn’t look towards him. She simply… continued her night with the ease of someone who knew they were being watched and welcomed it. As if she was inviting a predator into her den and turning her back just to see if he’d pounce.

Xander nearly cursed under his breath when he saw what she was wearing. That robe. Forest-green silk—the color so rich against her tan skin. It made his fingers twitch with the need to trace the places where fabric met flesh. Hanging loosely at her waist, barely tied, the edges gaping just enough to show the curve of her thigh, the smooth line of her collarbone. Every time she shifted, the robe slipped, flashing more, turning her into something out of a dream.

It wasn’t an accident.

Not with the way she moved, hips swaying ever so slightly as she crossed the room, legs curling beneath her on the couch with the kind of elegance that was meant to be admired, book in hand. The glow from the fire kissed her, painting her in gold and orange, casting just enough shadow on her to tease. He wanted to run his hands through her ash brown hair tumbling down her back in loose, careless waves.

She planned this. Planned all of it. Knowing he would be here tonight. Knew exactly what she was doing. Daring him to step off the roof, into her space, past the boundary they have both been dancing around for weeks. This was a different game, not the one he came prepared for.

Then, a request, she wanted to see him. Not his silhouette, not his shadow lurking above her world—but his face.

One moment he was standing in his usual spot. The next, he was standing in the yellow haze from the street lamp below. As if her longing wrapped around his ribs and dragged him to the edge of the roof before he could even think to stop himself.

The way she moved closer to him, stepping onto the balcony, the soft rustle of her robe barely audible beneath the wind. She was so close. Close enough that he could smell her, feel her warmth.

It took all of his control, everything in him to keep his feet planted to that spot. To keep himself from crossing the void, pinning her to the cold brick wall, and tasting the smirk he knew was hiding at the corner of her mouth.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides as his entire body felt like it was being drawn forward, gravity itself conspiring to pull him to her.

He wanted to touch her, hold her, ruin her.

Restraint slammed back into place so fierce it made his jaw clench. If she felt it, if she caught even the edge of the struggle ripping through him, she didn’t show it. But she did step back inside.

Now, Xander’s not entirely sure which of them is winning anymore.

Alaura’s breathing finally slows, and the sharpness of her mind slips into sleep.

Jumping with the same seamless movement, his feet leave the rooftop and land silently on the balcony. The night air stirs faintly as he crosses the threshold, slipping through the partially open door once again.

This time, he doesn’t let himself get distracted or linger. Doesn’t cross the line to her bedroom that begs him to.

Instead, he walks to the coffee table, gift in hand.

The large box is elegant—wrapped in rich, glossy dark purple paper, reflecting the fire in its folds. A heavy gold bow rests perfectly in the center, no creases or imperfections. He places the box down with the care one would give to something fragile—or volatile.

No note. No explanation.

Alaura will know who it’s from.

Just for a moment, he turns toward the bedroom. Watching her lay there, face partially illuminated by the moonlight streaming in, hair spread across the pillow, sheets tangled around her legs. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with her scent, committing it to memory.

Then, he’s gone. Leaving behind nothing but a gift, and the undeniable proof that he knows her.