Page 13

CHAPTER 12

Alana

The pain wakes me before my alarm.

Of course it does. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humour.

I groan as I curl tighter under the covers, arms wrapped around my abdomen like that might help.

It doesn’t. The cramps are merciless.

Deep and sharp, radiating down my legs.

I don’t even need to check to know what’s happening.

Every few months, it hits like this.

My body turning traitor.

I drag myself to the bathroom, half asleep, half in agony.

After fumbling through the cabinet and dealing with the logistics (barely), I shuffle back to bed like a wounded animal, cocooning myself in my duvet like it might save me.

My alarm buzzes at 6.

30 a.m. Then again at 6.

50 a.m. Followed by, because the world hates me, a soft knock on my door.

“Alana?” Hunter’s voice is low, tentative.

“Training time.”

I let out something between a groan and a whimper.

“Absolutely not.”

A pause.

Then, “You dying in there?”

“Yes,” I croak.

“I have been slain by my uterus. Tell my father I loved him.”

The door creaks open a few inches, his silhouette outlined in the hallway light.

“Permission to enter?”

I make a vague flapping motion under the blanket.

“Only if you bring a heating pad and endorphins. Or morphine. Morphine would be good.”

He steps inside, eyes scanning the mess of duvet and suffering that is me.

He’s in his training clothes.

Sweats. Grey sweats.

“Period?” he asks gently.

I peek out just enough to glare at him.

“You say that like it’s a mild inconvenience. I’m being murdered from the inside.”

He nods solemnly, like I’ve just revealed I have a terminal illness.

“What do you need?”

A weak laugh escapes me.

“A day off from training. Chocolate. And a new uterus.”

He smirks.

“I can help with the first two. I’ll run to the store for you.”

“Wait, I’ll come with. You’ll end up getting the wrong things and I might murder you for it. I will not survive in jail, I fear.”

There’s a 24-hour grocery store a few blocks away, one of those bougie ones that smells like eucalyptus and judgement.

It’s usually empty this early, aside from the occasional gym bunny in matching activewear hunting protein bars and validation.

“Copy that. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Come when you’re ready.”

I grab my phone and shoot Tessa a quick text.

Me:

I’m out today.

Uterus is staging a violent protest.

Send carbs.

She replies in seconds.

Tessa:

Permission to work from bed granted.

I’ll drop off croissants later, soldier.

God, I love her.

I put on some leggings, my Uggs, a tank top, no bra.

Can’t do a bra. Make-up’s a distant dream.

My favourite oversized Gucci crewneck is on the couch, right where I left it.

Of course, Salem’s lying on it like it’s his throne.

I shoo him and groan when I see the state of it.

“Why today?” I exclaimto the heavens.

“Everything okay?” Hunter asks.

“Far from it. I know I’ve looked better, but I draw the line at being seen in public, covered in black cat hair.”

“Why don’t you just grab another one?” he says gently like he’s trying to disarm a bomb.

“Because every other one I have is too tight and I can’t do tight today. This day sucks,” I mutter, admitting defeat as I head back to my room.

I rummage through my drawers for what feels like forever, but every sweater is some version of body-hugging torture.

“Here,” Hunter says.

I turn and he’s standing in the doorway, holding out one of his black hoodies like it’s a peace offering.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling it on.

It feels like a warm hug.

Clean. Safe.

It smells like home.

I’m in Hunter’s oversized hoodie (well, oversized for me) with sunglasses on like I’m hiding from paparazzi instead of cramps.

Hunter pushes the cart like a man on a mission, scanning shelves like he’s clearing a building.

“This is the weirdest op I’ve ever run,” he mutters, tossing two bags of chocolate, three kinds of painkillers and a hot water bottle shaped like a bunny into the cart.

“You picked the bunny one?” I ask, peering over the rim of my sunglasses.

He shrugs, completely unbothered.

“The others were ugly. This one looked like it could emotionally support you.”

I grin despite the dull throb in my abdomen.

“You’re not wrong.”

We make it halfway down the snacks aisle before I detour for mini donuts and brownies, dropping both into the cart with dramatic flair.

Hunter eyes the pile.

“Really? Donuts and brownies?”

“Don’t judge me in my time of need.”

He lifts his hands in surrender.

“No judgment. Just… honest concern for how your digestive system survives your coping strategies.”

“Built different,” I say, smirking as I jab him in the side with a box of chocolate-chip cookies.

We’re halfway through checkout when it happens.

A woman (tall, brunette and wearing activewear that’s trying very hard) sidles up to the conveyor belt behind us and locks eyes on Hunter like he’s a protein shake she wants to devour.

“Excuse me,” she says, flashing a bright smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the almond butter is, would you?”

Hunter blinks, momentarily thrown off.

“Uh… no, sorry.”

She leans a little closer.

“You just look like you know things. Like a man who meal preps.”

Oh my God.

I clear my throat loudly and step between them, dropping the box of cookies on the belt with an audible thunk .

“He does meal prep, actually. For his wife. Me. I’m the wife.”

Hunter chokes on a laugh.

The woman blinks, eyes flicking between us and then smiles tight before retreating.

When she’s gone, Hunter turns to me, amused.

“Wife?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want to share my chocolate with her.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, wife .”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling.

Even with the cramps, this is the most fun I’ve had at a grocery store in my life.