But the years of suppressing emotions, of burying them under layers of resolve and icy detachment, seem to be crumbling away, even as I scramble to consolidate them. It’s not working, though. The walls of my self-imposed fortress have been irreparably breached, falling apart just as fast as I rebuild them and leaving me defenseless against this sudden flood of affection and fear. Fear I might lose her again, fear she might see through the cracks in my armor and witness the chaos swirling within me and use it against me, because that’s what people do.
This moment is both sanctuary and tempest - a safe harbor amid the storm brewing within my heart. A fragile peace threatened to be shattered by the maelstrom churning deep within my soul. A blizzard which threatens to consume me with its ferocity.
The knowledge that this kind of vulnerability could be exploited by others leaves me uneasy. The heart is a fickle thing when it’s unguarded - a dangerous liability in a world where love is carelessly weaponized by our adversaries. My instincts scream for self-preservation, for Emylyah and our unborn son’s sake as much as my own.
Since I have no idea how to deal with it all, I stuff it down as best I can, even as I tighten my grip on her and bury my face in her neck to hide the conflicting emotions I'm sure are written all over my face.
She’s wet and bedraggled. Her hair is a rat-tailed mess of swamp water and weeds. She doesn’t have on a scrap of makeup and what the hell is she wearing?
I glance over her clothing… leggings and sneakers? I’ve honestly never seen her wearing anything so casual - not even at night, or when she’s relaxing.
And yet she’s never looked more beautiful.
Jesus, I’m fucked!
As I settle her in the car, I can't shake the feeling that everything has shifted, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for what comes next.
During the entire journey back to Brooklyn, Emylyah seems different, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is. Any other time I’d assume it was simply the circumstances, except she’s changed into another pair of leggings and an unstructured, slouchy top, which despite being comfortable is still… unusual.
My jet is the epitome of opulent. It always has her usual beauty products and several changes of clothes to suit any occasion stocked, but she hasn’t used any of them.
She's curled up in one of the plush leather seats, her bare feet tucked beneath her, sipping chamomile tea and staring out the window. The casual posture is so unlike her usual prim demeanor that I find myself staring. “Are you okay?" I ask, unable to keep the hint of confusion from my voice.
Emylyah turns to me, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yes. Thank you."
There's a quiet confidence in her tone that I've never heard before. It's subtle, but unmistakable, an understated strength that hums beneath the surface.
Gone is the constant need to please, the anxious fluttering of her hands, the way she used to hang on my every word. Her perpetual quest for validation, which once draped around her like an invisible cloak seems to have slipped away, leaving behind a presence that is striking in its simplicity. It's as if she no longer measures her worth by my reactions or hangs on to everything I say with bated breath.
This new Emylyah seems... at peace with herself. The casual clothing and bare face speak volumes about her newfound self-acceptance, not just in appearance or attire, but in how she occupies her space, commanding it without demanding attention.
I settle into the seat across from her, studying her face, I see a woman at one with herself, unburdened by expectations. This is not a withdrawal into reticence but rather an emergence into authenticity. It's as though she's peeled away layers of pretense and finally embraced the truth of who she is with quiet resolve. Her makeup-free features are softer, more open and her eyes meet mine without flinching, a steady gaze that both unnerves and intrigues me.
"You seem... different," I venture, treading carefully.
She nods, taking another sip of tea, but all she says is, "A lot can change in a week."
A week that holds a lifetime of change.
I have the disquieting urge to hold her, but the fragile, eager-to-please woman I knew a week ago has vanished so I’m not sure she’d welcome it. In her place is someone... stronger. More assured. The change throws me off balance as much as my own wildly careening emotions.
I swallow hard, trying to regain my usual control. It was easier when I could predict her every move, when I knew exactly how to handle her. Now, I'm not so sure. And that kind of uncertainty is dangerous in my world. I hate it.
“Indeed,” I murmur, pulling out my phone to check for messages, not sure what else to say.
Nothing is safest.
Emylyah continues to sip her tea… but is that a flash of disappointment I see in her eyes? I’m not sure I know how to read her anymore.
If it is, it’s gone with a blink.
It’s the early hours of the morning when we finally arrive home. “Get some sleep,” I tell her once we’re safely back at the compound. “Tomorrow I’ll ask the doctor to come check you out.”
It hasn’t escaped my notice that she has various scrapes and bruises, which only exacerbates my concern for the baby. Normally I would have dragged her to see my personal physician, but even I can read the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
Then again…
“On second thoughts, maybe we should see him now.”
