Chapter 55

                                    

                                          
Matthew
July 11th 2018
Waking up early feels like betrayal, plain and simple. 
Mornings and I have never gotten along, but here I am, blinking blearily at the ceiling in Emma's room. 
The pink fluffy blanket of shame is still half-draped over me, and I'm pretty sure I drooled on the bed. Classy.
The house is quiet, which means Emma's either still asleep or plotting something. 
I sit up, rubbing the back of my neck, and head toward the stairs making my way downstairs. 
Staying over was a no-brainer after yesterday. 
No way I was going to leave her alone after Charlie's unexpected guest appearance. 
But now, in the sharp light of morning, I need to figure out how to slip out without triggering parental alarms at my place.
I shuffle to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, trying to wake up. 
Emma appears at the top of the stairs a moment later, looking like she rolled straight out of a Pinterest board titled Effortless Morning Mess. 
Hair everywhere, sweatshirt way too big for her, eyes half-closed. She's the human embodiment of "not a morning person," and yet, she still manages to look more put-together than I do.
"You're still here?" she mumbles, her voice raspy with sleep.
"Wow, good morning to you too," I reply, leaning against the counter. 
"Thought I'd stick around to make sure you survived the night. Plus, I didn't want to risk getting struck by lightning if I left in the rain."
She smirks, tugging her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands. "You're so noble."
"It's a burden, really," I say, grinning.
Emma stumbles down the stairs, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. 
She pours herself coffee, muttering something about mornings being a conspiracy. I glance at the clock and realize I need to make my escape soon if I want to avoid a full-blown interrogation from my parents.
"I should probably get going," I tell her, setting my glass in the sink. "But I'll pick you up after work, okay?"
She looks at me, her expression softening just a bit. "You don't have to—"
"Emma," I cut her off, stepping closer. "I want to."
She hesitates, but then nods, her lips quirking up in a small smile. Before I can overthink it, I lean down and press a quick kiss to her forehead. 
It's a simple gesture, but the way her eyes widen slightly makes it feel... more.
"See you later," I say, turning to grab my stuff before she can tease me about it.
I step outside and head to my car, the morning air cool and crisp. 
The drive home is uneventful, which is good because I'm not in the mood to explain why I spent the night at Emma's. 
As soon as I get home, I slip inside, hoping to avoid detection. 
My parents are in the kitchen, but thankfully, they're too preoccupied with whatever adults do in the morning to notice me sneaking upstairs.
Once in my room, I grab fresh clothes, shower, and head to work at the camp. 
Spending my mornings wrangling kids is not the dream job, but it pays, and I guess someone has to teach them how to roast marshmallows without burning the forest down. By the time I'm done for the day, I'm exhausted but in a good mood.
After work, I head straight to the music store to pick Emma up. She's waiting outside, her bag slung over one shoulder and her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. 
She looks tired, but there's a faint smile on her face when she sees my car.
"Chauffeur service at your disposal," I say as she climbs in.
"Very fancy," she replies, buckling her seatbelt.
We drive back to my house, chatting about random stuff—her annoying coworker, the weird kid at camp who tried to eat a crayon, and a ridiculous BuzzFeed quiz she took during her lunch break. 
By the time we pull into my driveway, the tension from yesterday feels like a distant memory.
We sneak into the house the same way I snuck out yesterday evening, tiptoeing past my parents' room like a couple of teenagers breaking curfew. 
Once safely in my room, Emma flops onto my bed like she owns the place, her bag hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Comfy?" I ask, kicking off my shoes.
"Very," she replies, stretching out dramatically. 
"You should consider redecorating, though. This place screams 'teenage boy.'"
"Harsh," I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. 
"I'll have you know my Spider-Man poster is a timeless piece of art."
Emma rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. 
We spend the next hour just hanging out—talking, joking, and occasionally tossing pillows at each other when one of us says something particularly dumb. It's easy, effortless, like we've been doing this for years.
At some point, the conversation slows, and there's this quiet moment where we're just lying there, facing each other. 
Her hand is resting next to mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin. I reach out, threading my fingers through hers, and she doesn't pull away.
"You know," I say, breaking the silence, 
"for someone who claims to hate mornings, you're pretty cute when you first wake up."
She scoffs, but her cheeks turn pink. "Shut up."
"I'm serious," I continue, grinning. "The messy hair, the grumpy little pout—it's a look."
Emma rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now. "If you're trying to be smooth, it's not working."
"Oh, I'm always smooth," I reply, leaning closer.
"Prove it," she challenges, her voice barely above a whisper.
And just like that, we're kissing. It starts slow, tentative, like we're both trying to figure out the rhythm. But then her hand finds its way to the back of my neck, and all thoughts of "taking it slow" fly out the window.
When we finally pull apart, we're both a little breathless. Emma's looking at me with this mix of amusement and something deeper, something I can't quite put into words.
"Well?" I ask, my voice teasing. "Was that smooth enough for you?"
She laughs softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"But you love it," I counter, grinning.
Emma doesn't respond, but the way she's looking at me says enough.
We spend the rest of the evening tangled up together, talking about everything and nothing. 
At one point, I make a dumb joke about how the pink blanket from her house has probably cursed me for life, and she nearly falls off the bed laughing. 
It's moments like this—when she's laughing so hard she can barely breathe—that make me forget about the rest of the world.
Eventually, we both start to doze off. I pull the blanket over us, and Emma curls into my side, her head resting on my shoulder.
"You okay?" I ask softly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
She nods, her eyes already half-closed. "Yeah. Thanks for... you know. Being here."
"Always Em" I say, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
And as we drift off to sleep, the world feels a little brighter, a little safer, knowing we've got each other.