Emma'a Pov
The Route Home
The next morning felt like the world had finally exhaled. For the first time in days, I woke up rested—heavy with sleep, light in spirit. Maybe it was his scent that lingered faintly on my skin, like a secret the night didn't want to let go of. Or maybe it was just the stillness—the kind that comes after a storm of thoughts.
The sun crept through my half-drawn curtains, golden and shy, scattering across the room in broken streaks. Outside, the city was wrapped in winter's hush. The snow had fallen again overnight, soft and pure, blanketing the narrow street below. When I cracked open the window, the air kissed my face with a cold so crisp it almost tasted clean—like fresh linen and pine needles. I could smell morning itself: faint smoke from a neighbour's chimney, the metallic chill of snow, and somewhere distant, the comforting warmth of brewing coffee.
I brushed my teeth and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water chase away the chill that clung to my bones. Steam curled against the glass, blurring my reflection until it felt like I was washing away yesterday.
By the time I reached the kitchen, sunlight had spilled generously across the counter. I whisked eggs, the rhythm soft and steady, and poured them into the pan. The scent of butter filled the small space, mingling with the warmth of toasted bread and the quiet bubbling of tea on the stove. My apartment wasn't perfect—old floors, unpolished wood, and walls that carried whispers of the past. The table could barely seat four, the corners chipped, its surface etched with faint stains from forgotten dinners. Yet, in the soft light of morning, it looked... lived in. It looked like home.
And for the first time, I didn't mind the imperfections. They felt human. They felt like me.
As I sipped my tea, a faint curl of steam rose into the cold morning light, dissolving into the air like a memory trying to return. It reminded me of that day at the café—how he'd walked toward our table, two cups in his hands, one for me and one for my friend. The smell of roasted beans and vanilla syrup had lingered in the air, soft and comforting. I could still see him placing the cups down carefully, the way his fingers brushed the edge of mine by accident, and how my heart had stumbled at something so small.
I remembered asking him, hesitant yet brave enough to ruin the quiet, "Do you like me?"
And his answer—low, calm, mercilessly clear—"No."
A laugh slipped out of me now, but it broke halfway through. "Yes, what was I expecting?" I murmured. My voice sounded like it was made of paper—thin, fragile, one tear away from silence.
The clock's long hand fell on nine. I rinsed the dishes, the warm water running over my hands until the sting of the temperature grounded me. I made my bed, smoothed every wrinkle, as if neatness could replace the calm I didn't feel.
I dressed without thinking—a brown cardigan first, soft and familiar, then dark blue jeans that hugged my legs like something reliable. My champagne-colored winter coat followed, warm and elegant, with a faint scent of lavender clinging to its collar. I let my natural brown hair fall freely, loose waves brushing my shoulders, and slipped on a pair of cream earmuffs that muffled the stillness of the morning.
Pulling on my long black boots, I heard the faint creak of the leather—a small sound, but it reminded me I was still here, still moving. I grabbed my glossed black tote bag from the table, its surface catching a glint of sunlight, and my keys jingled softly in my other hand.
The apartment was quiet, save for that sound. The air smelled faintly of tea leaves, soap, and cold winter light—the kind of morning that felt both new and familiar. I paused at the door for a second, breathing it in, and thought of him again—not as a heartbreak, but as a chapter I hadn't finished reading.
The cold met me like an old acquaintance the moment I stepped outside. A hush lingered in the air—the kind that only comes after snowfall, when even the city seems to hold its breath. The streets were wrapped in white, soft and untouched in some places, slushed and bruised by footsteps in others. My boots sank slightly into the snow with each step, leaving behind shallow prints that filled almost instantly with powdery frost.
The air smelled clean, sharp with the scent of winter—like frozen pine and distant chimney smoke. Sunlight dripped weakly through the clouds, catching on the flakes that drifted lazily down, turning the world into something fragile and almost holy.
I pulled my coat tighter around me and adjusted my earmuffs. My breath came out in small clouds, fading before they could rise. The city was beginning to stir—someone scraping ice from their windshield, a door creaking open, the faint hum of a streetcar rolling down the tracks. Life moved on, quietly indifferent.
As I walked, the cold stung my cheeks, but it wasn't unpleasant. It kept me awake, aware. I thought of him again—not the moment he said no, but the way he looked after saying it. Calm. Certain. And yet there had been something in his eyes, something unspoken and fleeting, like the warmth of a candle before it dies.
The memory ached, but softly now—like a bruise that had learned to heal. I exhaled, watching the vapour dissolve into the air.
Maybe that's what love really was. Not the promise of forever, but the quiet after it ends—the space it leaves behind, still warm enough to feel human.
The snow kept falling, and I kept walking, until the sound of my footsteps became the only thing that made sense.
I wasn't going to the café today. The thought of it felt too heavy, too threaded with memories I wasn't ready to revisit. Instead, I stopped in front of a small bakery tucked between a florist and a narrow antique shop. The air outside was warmer here, scented with sugar, butter, and the faint sweetness of freshly baked bread.
Emmett was already waiting. He stood by the window display, a cream bun in hand, the powdered sugar dusting his coat like early snow. From the look of it, the bun had come straight from the oven—soft, golden, and steaming faintly in the morning chill.
"Hey, Emmett," I said, stepping beside him, my voice blending into the low hum of the city waking up. He turned, mid-bite, eyes crinkling as he tried to chew faster.
"Hey," he managed, then took another exaggerated bite as if speed could hide his guilt for eating without me. Within a blink, the bun was gone.
I couldn't help but smile. "You're unbelievable."
He grinned, brushing crumbs from his gloves. "So," he said, his breath curling in the cold air, "where should we start?"
The warmth spilling from the bakery door wrapped around us like a gentle invitation. For a moment, I forgot the weight of yesterday—the lingering ache, the echo of that café, the word no that still stung somewhere deep inside.
The morning felt different here. Lighter. As if maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of day that could begin without looking back.
Emmett and I walked side by side, our footsteps crunching softly against the thin layer of snow that lined the pavement. The wind carried the faint aroma of baked bread from the bakery behind us, fading into the sharper scent of winter air.
We spoke quietly, our conversation tucked between the noise of passing cars and the hum of morning chatter. Emmett was my partner—business partner, and in certain circles, partner in crime. He also happened to be my brother's best friend, which made things complicated. I had to tread carefully around him. For all I knew, he could be reporting back to my brother, who had turned surveillance into an art form ever since the incident.
I didn't blame him, not entirely. But the constant watchfulness—the sense of being shadowed—had started to feel like a cage with invisible bars.
"Today, we start by watching him," I said under my breath, keeping my voice low enough that only Emmett could hear. "To be honest, the way you two described his daily route—it's too calculated. Too clean. I'm sure that old man's hiding something."
Emmett arched a brow, his expression half amusement, half curiosity. "You mean Jamie Anderson? You found something unusual about the route he takes to work?"
I shook my head, glancing at him through the corner of my eye. "No," I said, tone measured, "something's unusual about the route he takes back home."
For a moment, we walked in silence. The sound of our steps filled the space between us, deliberate and steady. Then Emmett turned to me, the teasing gone from his face, replaced by quiet thought.
"Back home, huh?" he murmured. "You think he's making a stop somewhere?"
I met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "I don't think," I whispered, "I know."
"It's true, we know the stops he's been making," Emmett said, his breath forming faint clouds in the cold. "But nothing about them seems unusual."
"It's not, at least not at first glance," I replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as we walked. "But think about it, Emmett—how often do you go to the same restaurant every single day? How often do you visit your sister at the exact same hour, or leave the office precisely at five o'clock, not a minute late?"
He shot me a quick look, half skeptical, half intrigued, but stayed quiet.
I continued, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "No one follows a routine that perfect unless they're trying to make it look that way. There's a flaw—somewhere between those stops—and my gut…" I paused, watching the condensation from his breath fade into the cold morning air, "My gut tells me he's hiding something."
Emmett gave a quiet huff that might've been a laugh. "You and your gut," he murmured, though there was something in his tone—an edge of belief he didn't want to admit.