Emily pushes her mug away, her silver hair falling forward to shield her from me. The strands catch the weak morning light filtering through the window, turning them to quicksilver.
Mixie stretches, then pads across the hardwood floor, her claws clicking with each step. She winds between Emily’s legs, rubbing her head against Emily’s calf before sitting back on her haunches.
I fill Emily’s mug first, then mine, before returning the carafe to its warming plate. The coffee’s rich scent fills the air, but even this smallpleasure is muted, buried under the weight of Emily’s thoughts.
Her hand drops to Mixie’s head, stroking the cat’s fur, and Mixie leans into the touch, her eyes closing to slits of contentment.
“You should eat before it gets cold,” I suggest, cutting into my own eggs.
Emily lifts a forkful to her mouth, chewing without enthusiasm, her stare fixed on a knot in the wooden tabletop, her thoughts elsewhere.
We eat in silence, broken only by the scrape of forks on plates and the soft patter of rain starting again outside. The cottage creaks and sighs around us, settling in the damp.
When I finish my eggs, I push the plate away and pick up my coffee mug. “Emily?—”
“I keep thinking about patterns,” she interrupts, the next line dragging out of her as though each syllable takes effort. “About how easy it is to fall back into them.”
Her eyes lift to mine for the first time this morning, the silver in them dulled to pewter, and shadows bruise the skin beneath.
When I open my mouth to respond, she lifts her hand, palm out. “Let me talk first, please.”
I settle back in my chair, giving her the space she needs.
Mixie jumps onto Emily’s lap, front paws on the edge of the table, whiskers twitching as she sniffs at the remains of breakfast. Emily continues to stroke the cat, her fingers finding the spot behind Mixie’s ears that brings out her purrs.
“After seeing Auren yesterday…” Emily takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling beneath her faded flannel shirt. Her fingers still on Mixie’s fur, and the cat turns to look up at her, sensing the shift in her energy. “I realized how easily I could become just like him.”
The comparison between steady, kind Emily and that snake, Auren, hits so far out of left field I nearly spill my coffee. “You’re nothing like?—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off again. “You don’t know how I was with him. What I became.” Her fingers resume their motion on Mixie’s fur, rhythmic, soothing herself more than the cat. “I need you to understand where I’ve been before we can talk about where we might go.”
I swallow my protests. “All right.”
“I need to tell you about us. About what happened.” She swallows hard, her throat working. “About how I lost myself with him, and why I’m so afraid of what’s happening between us.”
The rain intensifies, drumming on the roof in a rapid rhythm that my racing heart matches.
Emily wraps both hands around her coffee mug, her knuckles whitening with pressure. “I met Auren when I was twenty-two at my first real construction job. He was working in the office, handling permits and payroll.”
I sit frozen, afraid any movement might break her confidence.
“He was even more beautiful back then. All the Alphas on site fawned over him.” A ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. “But he noticed me. Brought me coffee. Asked questions about my work. He seemed genuinely interested in what I was building.”
She lifts her mug to her lips but doesn’t drink, just holds it there for a moment before setting it back down, untasted.
“No one had ever given me the kind of attention he did, as though I were the most intriguing thing in the room.” Her thumb traces the handle of her mug. “I was so young. So stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid,” I protest. “You were?—”
“Please.” Her eyes flick up to mine, then away. “Just let me get through this.”
“Okay.” I settle back in my chair. “I’m listening.”
“He needed help with rent. Said his roommate had left without notice.” Emily’s shoulders drawinward, her emotions draining away as she distances herself from the memory. “So I offered my couch. Then my bed. Then my bank account.”
Her fingers stroke along Mixie’s spine, the cat arching into her touch, the repetitive motion soothing her as much as the cat.
“He was always so fragile. So delicate. Needed organic or imported food. Custom clothes. Couldn’t work too many hours because it was ‘too stressful.’” She tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “Meanwhile, I took double shifts. Overtime. Weekend work. Anything to keep us afloat.”