"Menstruation," he smirked.
I groaned, rolling over to press my face into the pillow. "I hate you."
"Do you know how many laboring women have said that to me? Here." He plugged the heating pad into the outlet above his nightstand and then pressed it to my stomach over the blankets. "Adjust it however you want. I'll get you some water, and you can take another acetaminophen."
"Nngrf," I grunted into the pillow.
"Stop being such a baby," he chided, but I heard the smile in his voice. "What kind of tea do you like?"
"Ew." I scrunched up my face and exposed one eye to glare at him. "Gross."
"Juvenile," he repeated. "I might have hot chocolate somewhere. Either way, if you're having severe cramps, then you need to relax, and warm drinks will help. It'll lessen the symptoms."
That made some sense. It was usually when I was at work or meeting new people that my cramps became unbearable. They were pretty bad anyway, but I'd gotten nervous meeting Spencer. The heating pad warmed my pelvis, and I sighed, already melting into the mattress. "You're not my doctor, and I still dislike you, for the record."
"Honestly, that sounds like an upgrade from hate, so we're getting somewhere." Knox left, and I reached over to where he'd left the pills. They wouldn't do much, but they were better than nothing. The heating pad was doing wonders, though. My eyesfell closed, blocking out the bright morning light, and the heavy tug of sleep submerged me into soothing darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, the light had shifted, and a muggy warmth permeated the air. I blinked groggily. Knox's bed was amazing. It was like sleeping on meringue, and I had no sense of how long I'd napped or if I'd even moved. Judging by the soreness in my hips and arms, I hadn't so much as twitched. I took stock of the rest of me—cramps, better. Pad and tampon combo, dubiously intact. Brain, confused. I looked around the room, and a modern, numberless clock told me it was just after one. I swung a look to the left and found the bathroom door open and emitting a heavy cloud of steam.
Knox walked out in a towel, drying off his hair and making all the toned muscles on his abdomen and along his arms do a tasty ripple thing. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and openly ogled. That man's body could make the Mojave Desert soaking wet. He pulled the towel off his head, and his eyes found me. He paused, stopping in the middle of the room and going still.
I didn't even bother to look embarrassed. "Is this going to be a habit? The naked strolling thing?"
"Are you going to eye fuck me every time I do it?" he asked smoothly.
I almost choked, but I managed to keep it together. "Probably."
"Then sure." He didn't even smile when he said it. He just turned and walked into his huge closet and shut the door. The more I interacted with Knox, the more I found that he was like one of those crazy creations on "Is It Cake?" He looked like a bowl of plain nacho chips on the outside, but on the inside, he was some kind of melty, fudgy, sex cake. It was maddeningly interesting.
While he was getting dressed, I forced myself out of the warm comfort of his bed and back through the living room to my half-bathroom sanctuary. I changed my tampon and pad, washed my hands, and then patted cold water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, I winced. My two little space buns had gotten mussed and looked more like mouse ears, and I'd managed to cry off some of my mascara at some point. Had I cried? I didn't remember doing that. Then my stomach grumbled, and I had an intense craving for fried chicken and potato salad out of nowhere. Food. I needed food.
When I got out of the powder room, Knox was already in the kitchen. As I joined him, I took in the tidy sweep of his wet, blond hair, the fresh shave across his jaw, and the relaxed fit of his soft navy T-shirt and sweatpants. He looked… good. Really good.Never mind. He's not a bowl of tortilla chips. He's always been a fudge cake. You just weren't paying attention, batter-brain.
He glanced at me as he spread mustard on a spinach wrap. He went still again, taking in my appearance with swift passes over my face and down my crop top. "You look like a texel mouse."
I pulled up one side of my upper lip. "A what?"
"You know," he gestured to me with his knife. "Those goofy-looking mice with big ears and curly hair."
"Oh, well, as long as I'm goofy looking," I muttered.
"Humility won't kill you." He left the mustard-covered butter knife on the counter.Onit, without a plate or a napkin or anything. What a fucking disaster. "But you do look less pale."
"I appreciate that. I think." I paused, and then added for good measure, "But you're not my doctor, so knock that shit off."
Knox chewed the inside of his cheek like he was biting back his words. Finally, he said, "If that's what you want."
"I'm just drawing boundaries. We have to have boundaries as roommates. Younotbeing my doctor is definitely a must." I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands and pulled myself into a ball on the barstool. My cramps were coming back,and I hated it. I hated that every one to three months, I had a dramatically bloody exorcism that put me out of commission. The only benefit to having endometriosis—if I could call it a benefit—was that I had irregular periods, so it wasn't every month.
Knox put shredded chicken in the center of two flat wraps. "What has your GYN said about your symptoms?"
I laid my cheek on my knees, watching him. "I don't know. They told me I had endometriosis and to take over-the-counter painkillers."
Knox leaned his hands on the counter and leveled a stern look my way. "You have endometriosis? When was the last time you saw your GYN?"
I pulled a face. "Onlyyouwould think I should see one regularly. It's not like they can do anything for me."
"Onlyyouwould dismiss management care. You probably don't get your teeth cleaned, either."
