Page 35 of Hooked on Emerson
She shook her head, nestling closer against him. "No. You're warm."
His arm tightened around her, drawing her more firmly against his side. His skin smelled of rain and clean sweat, with undertones of sawdust and something distinctly him—a scent she realized she'd come to associate with safety, with being cared for.
"What are you thinking?" Ava asked, tilting her head to look at him.
Emerson's eyes met hers, something vulnerable in their depths. "That I meant what I said. At the festival."
I think I'm falling in love with you. The words hung unspoken between them, but she heard them nonetheless, felt their truth in the way he held her, in the careful attention he paid to her comfort, in the tenderness with which he brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I know," she said softly. "I believe you."
He nodded, accepting her response without pushing for more. Always giving her space, always letting her find her way in her own time. It was one of the things she'd come to cherish about him—his patience, his understanding that some things couldn't be rushed.
Outside, the storm had gentled considerably, the rain now a soft patter against the windows. The thunder had moved on, just distant rumbles that felt more like memory than threat. The shop was quiet except for the occasional drip into a bucket, a rhythmic reminder of the work still to be done.
Ava traced the line of Emerson's collarbone with her fingertip, marveling at the warmth of his skin, at how comfortable she felt lying here with him, naked and vulnerable yet somehow safer than she'd felt in months. His hand caught hers, bringing her fingers to his lips for a soft kiss that made her heart flutter.
"We should check the buckets," she said after a while, though she made no move to get up. "Make sure nothing's overflowing."
"In a minute," he agreed, his fingers still tracing patterns on her skin.
They lay there a while longer, listening to the gentle rain, to each other's breathing, to the occasional distant rumble of thunder as the storm moved further away. The candle burnedlower, its light softening as the wick began to drown in melted wax.
Ava found herself memorizing the moment—the weight of his arm around her, the texture of the drop cloths beneath them, the way the candlelight gilded his skin, turning it to warm bronze. Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever decision she made about Seattle, about the shop, about her future, she wanted to remember this—being held by someone who saw her, truly saw her, and wanted her anyway.
Emerson woke to a soft gray light filtering through the windows. For a moment, he didn't recognize his surroundings. The angle of shadows, the distant drip of water, and the weight and warmth pressed against his side were all unfamiliar. Then memory returned in a rush of images and sensations. The storm. The leaking roof. Ava in his arms, her skin warm against his in the candlelight.
He turned his head carefully, not wanting to disturb her. She slept curled against him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her dark hair spilling across the makeshift bedding. The drop cloths had twisted around them during the night, partly covering her shoulder and leaving one foot exposed to the morning chill. Her features were softened by sleep, the worry line that often appeared between her brows completely smoothed away.
Something tightened in his chest. The urge to protect, to care for, to simply be near. He'd meant what he'd said at the festival. He was falling in love with her, had been falling since that first day with Nattie's camera between them. Maybe even before that, in some way he couldn't explain, as if his heart had been waiting for her before he even knew she existed.
But what did last night mean to her? The storm, the vulnerability, the way she'd reached for him in the darkness... Was it comfort she'd sought? Connection in the chaos? Or something else, something that might last beyond the rain?
He eased himself away from her carefully, retrieving his clothes from where they'd been scattered. His jeans were still damp, uncomfortable against his skin as he pulled them on. His shirt was better, having dried somewhat during the night. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he padded quietly to the front of the shop to check the damage.
Morning revealed what the darkness had hidden. Water stains spread across the ceiling like maps of unknown countries. Buckets and containers stood in puddles where they'd overflowed. The floor near the counter had begun to warp slightly, the wood swelling where water had pooled. Not as bad as the pipe burst had been, but still a significant setback after all their work.
Emerson found the small electric kettle they kept for tea and coffee, pleased to discover it still worked despite the power outage. The electricity must have been restored sometime during the night, though the shop remained quiet except for the steady drip from the ceiling. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, measuring coffee grounds into the French press Ava kept on a shelf near the sink.
The familiar routine steadied him. Measure, pour, wait, press. Simple actions requiring just enough attention to quiet the questions circling in his mind. What happens now? Where dowe go from here? The rich scent of coffee filled the small space, grounding him in the present moment rather than an uncertain future.
He heard movement from the back room—the soft sounds of Ava waking, of fabric shifting, of bare feet on wooden floors. He poured two mugs of coffee, adding a splash of cream to hers the way he'd seen her do countless mornings.
She appeared in the doorway, fully dressed now, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. There was something in her expression he couldn't quite read—a guardedness that hadn't been there in the darkness, a careful distance already forming between them.
"Morning," he said, offering her a mug. "Power's back on."
"Thanks." She took it, her fingers careful not to brush against his. "How bad is it?"
He knew she meant the shop, not what had happened between them, though the question could have applied to either. "Not great. But fixable."
She nodded, moving past him to survey the damage. Her shoulder almost touched his as she passed, but not quite, the space between them deliberate in a way that made his stomach tighten. She sipped her coffee, her face composed as she took in the water stains, the warped floorboards, the overflowed buckets.
"I should get a broom, start mopping up," she said, her voice steady and practical. No mention of the night before, of skin against skin, of whispered words in the darkness.
"I'll help." He set his coffee down, searching her face for some hint of what she was feeling. "Ava—"
"Thank you," she interrupted, her eyes meeting his briefly before sliding away. "For… staying."
