Mary Louise Emerson

Sunday. The scent of freshly brewed coffee curls through the apartment as Alaura leans against the kitchen counter, waiting for the machine to finish.

Her body feels sluggish, not from fatigue but from everything that happened after the club last night. Still, she managed to sleep, even if it wasn’t particularly restful.

After returning home from Camilla’s birthday celebration, she didn’t have much of an appetite, stomach twisted in knots from the evening’s events. But now that the exhaustion has settled, she’s ravenous.

Taking a few sips of coffee, she pulls out eggs, toast, and avocado, moving through the motions of making breakfast. Her actions are simple, rhythmic, the occasional clink of utensils or the soft sizzle of eggs frying in the pan.

Once finished, she plates everything neatly, as though presentation alone might coax calm into her. Mug in one hand, plate in the other, she carries them to the kitchen island and sets them down. Before sliding onto the stool, she reaches for her laptop off the white desk perfectly positioned next to the fireplace. The screen blinks awake as she flips it open.

Mindlessly, she skims through personal emails, scanning as she takes slow sips of coffee between bites. Nothing urgent. Some work-related things she’ll deal with later, a couple of subscription newsletters she barely remembers signing up for.

It’s not until she scrapes the last bite from her plate that she picks up her phone.

A message from Camilla. What happened to you last night?? One second you’re on the dance floor, and the next—POOF. Gone. And with THAT guy?? Tell me everything! Also, girls’ dinner tonight? Let me know.

Alaura sighs, fingers hovering over the keypad. She doesn’t have the energy to explain. Doesn’t have the patience to tell Camilla she didn’t leave because of some man, but because the night took a very different turn.

And the last thing she wants is to be out after dark.

She responds, I was exhausted. It was easier to just leave than track everyone down and say goodbye. Sorry, next time??

A few minutes later, Ugh fine, but you’re making it up to me.

With a smirk, Alaura sends back a simple heart emoji before locking her phone and setting it aside.

Looking up, the morning light streams in through the window, golden and soft across the sleek countertops. Her gaze drifts through the open bathroom door, toward the closed closet. Where the box remains hidden.

The one she took from her mother’s house after the funeral. The one she buried in her closet seven weeks ago, not wanting to be part of that world.

Alaura draws in a slow breath, steadying herself before pushing off the stool. The floor is cool beneath her bare feet as she crosses the apartment and steps into the walk-in closet.

Shoved in the far corner, the box sits undisturbed. Carefully crouched down, she lifts the box and carries it out. Its aged wood out of place among the neutral colors that make up the living room.

A light thud sounds as it makes contact with the black coffee table placed in the middle of the white area rug, echoing through the stillness of the apartment.

Her heartbeat is louder than it should be as she sinks onto the gray L-shaped sectional. Eyes narrowed on the box, procrastinating. And she feels it staring back, waiting for her, just as it always has.

When she finally opens it, her father’s journals greet her. Ten of them. Worn leather covers, some cracked, most still intact. All filled with his words, thoughts, and secrets.

Alaura reaches in, fingers grazing the smooth edges before pulling out the first journal. She flips through page after page.

There’s no pattern, no clear meaning.

And no chronological order.

Some pages are dated. Some aren’t. There are journals that skip entire years, only to pick up again with something completely unrelated. They’re a mess, almost as if he reached for the nearest journal at the time and wrote on the next empty page. A fragmented, chaotic glimpse into the mind that once belonged to someone whom she trusted and loved.

But now?

Now, it feels like they belong to someone she hardly knew.

Lost in the pages, she reads through them one after another, barely registering the passage of time. Each scribbled entry, each strange symbol, each cryptic note pulling her deeper, unraveling a story she doesn’t fully understand—yet can’t stop.

Only when her stomach rumbles does she finally blink, the sudden ache of hunger interrupting her focus. Shifting, she winces as stiff muscles protest, her body reminding her how long she was curled on the couch. A quick glance at the wall of windows tells her night has fallen, unaware of how many hours have slipped away.

Snapping the journal shut and setting it aside, she pushes up from the couch, then makes her way to the kitchen. Half-trapped in the past, half-aware of the present, her hands move on their own, opening the fridge and pulling out ingredients.

The stove’s low hum blends in with the faint sizzle of vegetables and steak hitting the heat as she prepares her meal. A warm, inviting scent of garlic and spices unfurls through the air.

For a while, she focuses on the simplicity of cooking, letting the repetition of each movement pull her away from the tangled mess of her father’s journals.

Then—it hits her.

A force wraps around her like she’s suddenly in a new atmosphere. Tangible pressure curls over her skin, sending electricity through every nerve, like a warm breath against her neck.

His presence.

Her fingers freeze over the cutting board, the blade poised mid-slice. It’s not overwhelming, not like last night, a feeling so constricting it nearly choked the air from her lungs.

This is different.

Quieter. Intentional. Like a whisper, not a roar.

Looking over her shoulder, Alaura’s gaze drifts toward the windows. Beyond the glass and large brick balcony, Luxen stretches endlessly.

Below the streets buzz with energy—cars weaving through traffic, their headlights streaking white and red across the pavement. Pedestrians move in small groups, some laughing, some lost in their own worlds. The occasional blare of a horn, a faint pulse of music spilling from distant clubs, sharp chatter of strangers all blending into Luxen’s never-ending rhythm.

Though, her focus isn’t on the city. It’s on the rooftop that sits in view. The building across from hers is cloaked in darkness, its roof barely visible against the vast night sky.

Worn by the elements, the roof is old. A scattering of rusted ventilation units hum, their steady drone blending with the city’s distant sounds. An old metal stairwell clings to the side of the building, its chipped paint revealing layers of past renovations. Faint graffiti scrawls across a low brick wall, remnants of those who’ve been there, believing they own the night, never knowing what might actually be lurking within it.

She doesn’t need to see him to feel that invisible tether stretching between them. The heat of his stare searing into her skin, igniting that slow burning sensation she felt last night.

But tonight, something else bleeds through their new shared connection.

Relief.

A strange, quiet exhale of tension inside of him the moment he realizes she’s not falling apart, not unraveling. Now that he can see her standing in her kitchen, doing a task so normal, acting as if blood and monsters didn’t just stain the last twenty-four hours.

He knows she’s fine.

Alaura grabs the edge of the countertop as she tilts her head back. She can ignore him. Pretend she doesn’t feel him watching.

Or, a slow smile creeps onto her face, she can play another game.

Without glancing toward the rooftop, she shifts her stance, turning just enough to let him feel she knows he’s there. Then, simply goes back to her cooking, letting him watch.

Because if he wants to play this game, she’ll play it better.

Alaura finishes plating her food, setting the dish onto the smooth marble surface of the kitchen island. She slides onto the stool, tucking one leg beneath her as she picks up her fork, twirling it idly between her fingers before taking a bite. Making no effort to look towards the window.

Xander’s presence extends from the rooftop, enveloping her, pushing against her. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. But the pull feels a little stronger, like he’s trying to get her attention.

She doesn’t take the bait though. Letting the silence stretch, she takes another bite, forcing all her focus on her food. As if there is nothing more important than the savory piece of meat in her mouth.

Amusement curls in her chest. She lets it linger, sharpening it with enough mockery to make her point clear.

“Enjoying the view?”

His reaction is instant. She can feel the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. There’s no spoken answer, no verbal retort, but she feels the response just as clearly as if he whispered it into her ear.

“Mmmm, yes.”

Her lips twitch, suppressing a smirk of her own as she continues eating, resisting the urge to look out the window. But just as she lets herself settle into the moment, the air was pulled from her lungs. Alaura’s fork drops onto her plate, muscles tensing before she even knows why.

The weight is gone.