Page 16 of His Dark Cravings

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she teases, flipping a pancake with a flourish. "It's just another session, Everly. Relax."

I force a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You've been here longer."

"True, but I remember my first time." She winks, her emerald eyes glinting. "It's a rush, isn't it? That feeling of anticipation, not knowing what he'll do next."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I guess so."

"Come on, Everly." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You can't tell me you're not curious. He's a mystery, and you want to unravel him."

I bite my lip, torn between my growing fascination and the fear of the unknown. "I... I just don't want to get hurt."

Lila's laughter fills the kitchen, light and carefree. "Oh, sweetheart. That's the whole point. Embrace the thrill. It's like a rollercoaster—you strap in, hold on tight, and enjoy the ride."

I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is!" She grins, her eyes sparkling. "Look, I know it's scary, but trust me, it's worth it. You'll see."

I nod, my heart racing. "I hope so."

"You will." She winks again, then turns back to the stove, her curls bouncing as she flips another pancake. "Now, let's finish this breakfast. We've got a long day ahead."

When the food is ready, we both dig in. The pancakes are fluffy, almost too sweet. Lila laughs at something I said, the sound bright against the quiet hum of the kitchen. Her words from earlier play on repeat in my head: Embrace the thrill. It's like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster. That’s a terrifying image, but there’s something else there too, a spark of excitement I can't quite ignore. I pick at my eggs, their savory taste bland against the bitter tang of apprehension clinging to my tongue.

The silence stretches between us as we finish breakfast—a comfortable kind of silence—before Claire, a soft-spoken staffer, reminds me, "Everly, you should get going soon," as she loads the dishwasher.

I glance at the clock. She's right. It's time to leave for my shift at the Ember. As soon as I think about being there, guilt presses against me. I hate the growing distance between Max and me. Or rather, I hate the distance I'm opening up between us. He greets me with the same warmth every time he sees me, treating me like he treats everyone else.

But just because he acts the same doesn't mean I can.

I excuse myself and leave my dishes for Claire, waving goodbye to Lila as I leave the kitchen and get ready to go.

A short while later, the front door closes behind me, a soft thud against the quiet of the morning. Outside, the sky is awash with color, a gentle pink bleeding into a pale gold. It seems almost too vibrant for my mood.

The drive to work is short. Soon, the Ember's familiar shape appears. It's a beacon of hope here, a small building amid a sea of neglect. I grab my bag and step out, ready to start the day.

The clamor of the Ember envelops me as I push the front door open. People are already at work, bustling about sorting donations, organizing paperwork, and attending to the small children currently playing in the corner. Max waves and calls out my name.

"Everly, good of you to turn up!" His easy smile warms my chest. He moves toward me, and I force a matching smile.

"Max," I greet him. "You're early as always."

"Someone's got to make coffee." He chuckles, a light, joyful sound that feels like a challenge—why can't I be that easy and breezy? "You ready to make a difference today?"

I manage a nod, my throat tight with unshed words. I want to tell him everything, what I’ve been doing, but the thought of his reaction stops me. What would he think of me? Would he ask me why I didn't try to find another solution?

That's what I've been asking myself.

He doesn’t wait for my reply. “Well, we’d better get going. Loads to do.”

We slip into sorting cans, organizing clothing, and talking with the volunteers. It's the same as always yet feels different. Everything feels different. The sounds are louder or quieter, depending on the memories playing in my mind. It’s surreal.

A child tugs on my shirt, and I look down into a wide, bright face. Her fingers are stained in crayon, and she’s holding up a drawing. It’s a mess of color, a chaotic mix of lines, but she looks proud.

“Look what I made!” she says.

I kneel, matching her height. “It’s amazing. What is it?”

“It’s a family.” She points at random patches of color. “These are me and my brother and my mom.”

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