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I shrug. “Ehh, it’s just a little blood.”

“More than a little. It’s a like fucking battlefield.”

Tears threaten to pool in her eyes as she rubs them raw.

“What can I do to make you feel better? Do you need a heating pad? A snack? An orgasm?”

Her eyes flicker to me, and a tremor shakes through them, one that almost mimics fear.

“I just mean— I’m only asking because I heard they helped, that’s all,” I backpedal, unsure what triggered her reaction.

“Just maybe some Tylenol, and a snack for later.”

I rise from the floor with a nod, leaving the period panties I just fetched on the counter beside her.

“Will you be okay here for just a little? I’m going to run to Rad’s and pick some stuff up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to. Let me.” So much tenderness moves between the walls of this small bathroom. “Please,” I beg, needing to prove to her, and myself, that I can be the man she needs.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“I won’t be long. Everything in this house is yours. Make yourself at home.”

CHAPTER 42

FIA

I utterly despise my period.

Like most women, this time of the month is gruesome, but for me, it’s nothing but a painful reminder. A monthly alert that no matter how hard I try, I’ll always be the girl who was asking for it. That no matter how many times I said no to him, my body screamed yes. No matter how many times I begged him not to touch me, it sounded like a plea of desperation to his sick mind.

I battle with whose fault that night was almost daily. In the back of my head, I know it wasn’t mine, but when I’m low and feel out of chances to give myself, I tend to blame me, me, me.

Tell myself I shouldn’t have worn something so short, or I should’ve said no louder—with more intention.

When the garage door finally closes, I remain rooted in place on the toilet. I’ve done a good job of plowing through life these last two years. Faking it. Making people believe that I was someone I wasn’t, when inside, I was just numb.

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter if I liked the person I was becoming; there would always be a version of me I’d never get back.

But with Jett, healing her feels more within reach than ever before.

Looping my feet out of my current panties, I replace them with my period underwear, flinching at the reminder of why I even wear these things in the first place.

Before Jett can get back, I make my way to his room, ravaging for my favorite sweats. Wanting something way bigger than what I own, I tug off my tight cropped T-shirt and replace it with something more oversized.

Something of his.

When I pull it from the drawer and over my head in a hurry, his masculine smell makes everything wrong that’s happening inside my body feel right. Surely, he won’t mind that I’m borrowing a shirt. It’s not like I’m snooping through his things, though it feels weird making myself at home here.

Not because I don’t like it. If anything, I’m apprehensive to get comfortable here because of how much I do.

Before closing the drawer, my eye catches a small piece of paper in the corner.

Unable to help myself, I pluck the sheer-looking slip, careful not to tear the thin material. I unravel it to confirm further what I know I’m looking at. I don’t have tattoos, but I’ve spent many drunken nights in tattoo shops.

Holding the sketch at a distance, the clarity seems to be fading the longer it sits in the dark, humid corner, but it’s still clear enough to make out.