Chapter Four Emmy
Chapter Four
Emmy
I have always loved showers, especially after a long shift.
There is something about standing beneath scalding water that feels like penance, like if I let it burn long enough, it might strip the day from my skin.
Tonight, the steam coils around me, heavy and suffocating, and no matter how hard I try, my thoughts circle back to him.
To the way his fingers had closed around my hand.
To the promise buried in his voice when he said he would see me again.
It has been just over a week since that moment, yet it refuses to loosen its grip on me.
It follows me into quiet rooms, into stolen moments of stillness, whispering his name when I least expect it.
I tell myself it’s ridiculous, infatuation born from trauma, but my pulse disagrees, thudding hard whenever I remember the weight of his gaze.
My hand glides down my body. Lower, lower.
Until it reaches that bundle of nerves that now screams for attention.
I rub slow and deliberate circles. My heart thumps.
My breathing unsteady. The circles are tighter now, harden.
I feel the heat and a high wash over me, as his name leaves me on a gasp “Khai”.
The water keeps running, but I barely notice when it cools. My reflection is blurred by steam, distorted enough that I almost don’t recognise myself. There is something different in my eyes now. Something restless. Something awake.
When I finally step out and wrap myself in a towel, I avoid the mirror. I’m not ready to look too closely at the girl staring back, the one who feels like she’s standing on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling all at once.
Three days off. An unheard-of luxury. I pull on soft pair of sleep shorts and an oversized T-Shirt and retreat to the comfort of my couch, determined to drown my thoughts in my favourite TV show Friends and sugar. I tell myself I deserve peace. Normalcy.
My phone buzzes.
I expect Tate. I always expect Tate. Instead, my stomach drops.
Unknown
Hello, Little Heaven.
My breath stutters. I stare at the screen far longer than I should before my fingers move.
Emmy
Who is this?
The reply comes quickly, as if he’d been waiting.
Unknown
I’ve been thinking about you. How your hand fit in mine, how your breath fanned my lips. How good you felt against my body.
My hand trembles, and I drop the phone onto the coffee table like it might bite me. My heart is racing, my thoughts a mess. Khai! How did he get my number? Why does the idea that it’s him send heat curling low in my chest instead of fear?
I pace the kitchen, grounding myself with cold water and steady breaths. This is nothing, I tell myself. Just words on a screen. You don’t owe him anything.
Another buzz.
I don’t look.
Another.
Still, I resist, right up until avoidance feels harder than curiosity. I choose sleep instead, burying myself beneath blankets like they might shield me from him.
They don’t.
Morning comes with a sharp knock at my door. Insistent. Unforgiving.
When I open it, the hallway is empty.
Then I see them.
Flowers. Dark green leaves framing nine perfect magnolias, pristine and deliberate. My name is written neatly on the envelope tucked between them.
Miss Winters.
My fingers shake as I open the card.
Don’t ignore me, Little Heaven.
The room feels suddenly smaller. Colder. I glance toward my phone like it’s watching me.
I make my way over to the phone. Quick tap in the screen shows me 3 unread messages, from him.
Unknown
Are you ignoring me?
Unknown
Little Heaven.
Unknown
You have no idea what you’re doing to me.
I should be scared.
I’m not.
Instead, something warm and treacherous unfurls in my chest. I message Tate, laugh it off, make plans for lunch like my world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
Hours later, sunlight kisses my skin as I walk toward our favourite café. I notice the black sports bike across the road and feel an inexplicable pull toward it. It hums with danger even at rest.
I find Tate slouched in a booth by the window, her head resting in her hands.
“Em, you’d better have a really good fucking reason for dragging me out of bed,” she groans. “And you’re paying for my lunch.”
Despite the complaint, there’s a smile tugging at her lips, one that tells me she’s not actually mad.
“Oh, I do,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her and pushing my phone across the table.
She glances down at the screen, then back up at me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow lifting. “Okay… what am I looking at here, Em?”
I tilt my head. “Those are text messages from Khai. The same Khai who got shot at the nightclub. The one I didn’t give my number to. The one who somehow found out where I live and sent me flowers.”
Tate freezes. She just stares at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Completely speechless.
I clear my throat. “You don’t think that’s creepy?”
She finally moves, reaching across the table to place her manicured hand over mine. “Em, I love you,” she says solemnly, “but I do not have the emotional or mental capacity today to give good advice. Please return in one to two business days.”
She breaks into a giggle.
And, despite everything, so do I.
Lunch passes in a blur of caffeine and sarcasm. Tate calls him an admirer. I call him a problem. Neither of us sounds convinced.
After errands and full grocery bags, I fumble with my keys in the car park.
They hit the ground.
Before I can reach them, someone else does.
Black boots. Dark jeans. A tattooed hand offering my keys back to me.
My heart stops.
Khai.
I rise too quickly, dizzy, and suddenly his hands are on me, steady, unyielding. One at my waist. One anchoring my arm. He doesn’t let go. He studies me like I’m something he’s already claimed.
“Hello, Little Heaven.”
His voice is lower than I remember. Closer. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture intimate enough to steal my breath.
“You got my flowers.”
I manage a nod. Then, because I’m braver than I feel, I ask the question that’s been clawing at me. “How did you find me?”
His grip tightens, not rough, not gentle. Possessive.
“I’m very good at finding what I want,” he murmurs near my ear. “And you caught my attention.”
He steps back before I can respond, issuing quiet instructions to a man who appears at his side like a shadow. My groceries are handled. My escape is sealed.
As he mounts his bike, he looks at me one last time, slow, deliberate.
“Try not to ignore me,” he says. “I don’t like having to chase.”
Then he’s gone, leaving behind the echo of his presence, and the terrifying truth settling deep in my bones.
I don’t think I want him to stop.