Page 26

Unexpected Inconveniences

Nora

The dining hall buzzes with the usual Thursday night chaos—students crowded around tables with textbooks propped against water bottles, the basketball team occupying the corner tables, their laughter carrying across the room. I spot Sadie’s pink hair immediately, her arm waving me over to where she and Daphne have claimed a table near the windows.

“Finally,” Sadie says as I set my tray down. “I was about to send a search party.”

“Sorry,” I slide into the empty chair. “Wexler kept me late going over data.”

“Nora and her oxytocin,” Daphne says with a smile. “The love hormone that’s stealing all her free time.”

I return her smile weakly, guilt twisting in my stomach. It’s not oxytocin research stealing my time lately, but the actual effects of the hormone itself—the attachment, the bonding, the physical pleasure of being with Dean.

Breathe, Nora.

“How’s James?” I ask, deliberately changing the subject as I unwrap my sandwich.

Daphne’s face lights up. “Really good, actually. He’s meeting my parents next weekend.”

“Wow,” Sadie raises her eyebrows. “The parental introduction. Things are getting serious.”

“I think they are,” Daphne admits, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “He’s… different. In a good way. Uncomplicated.”

I take a bite of my sandwich to avoid responding. Uncomplicated is exactly what Daphne wanted—exactly what Dean isn’t. The reminder should make me feel better about our relationship, but instead, it just intensifies the guilt.

“Oh, before I forget,” Daphne says, setting down her fork. “How’s the tutoring going with Dean? Is he actually applying himself these days?”

My heart stutters. “It’s going well,” I say carefully. “He’s actually really smart when he focuses. His biomechanics understanding is impressive.”

“That sounds like him,” Daphne nods. “Brilliant when he cares about something, completely checked out when he doesn’t.” She takes a sip of her water. “Do either of you have plans to see him soon? For tutoring or whatever?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I left my favorite sweater at his place ages ago—you know, the cashmere one my mom got me for Christmas? I just remembered it, and with the weather getting cooler again this week…” She shrugs.

Sadie shoots me a look that screams Tell her now! I ignore it.

“I have a tutoring session tomorrow,” I say, the lie slipping out easily. In truth, I’m supposed to see Dean tonight, but Daphne doesn’t need to know that.

“Would you mind asking him about it? No rush, just whenever.”

“Sure,” I say, my voice overly casual. “No problem.”

Just kill me.

“Thanks.” Daphne returns to her salad. “I’ve been meaning to get it back for weeks, but it’s been so weird with the breakup and everything.”

“Of course,” I say, feeling like the worst friend in the world. “I’ll check with Dean.”

Sadie kicks me under the table, her expression clearly communicating her disapproval of my continued deception. I kick her back, silently pleading for her to drop it.

“So,” Sadie says, mercifully changing the subject, “are we still on for movie night Saturday? I vote for something with explosions and minimal plot.”

The conversation shifts to safer territory—movie choices, weekend plans, complaints about end-of-semester workloads. I participate on autopilot, nodding and laughing at appropriate intervals while my mind races.

I need to tell Daphne the truth. Soon. Before she finds out from someone else, before this deception grows any larger than it already has. But the thought of her hurt expression, of potentially losing her friendship, makes my stomach clench.

“Earth to Nora,” Sadie waves a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”

“Sorry,” I blink, refocusing. “Just thinking about my lab report.”

“Always working,” Daphne says with a fond smile. “Some things never change.”

If only she knew how much has changed.

Back in my dorm room, I drop my backpack on the floor with a groan, the weight of the conversation with Daphne sitting heavy on my shoulders. I need to talk to Dean about the sweater—and about the larger issue of coming clean to Daphne. But first, a shower and a change of clothes before heading to his place.

I gather my shower caddy and towel, but as I turn to leave, I feel it—that telltale cramp, the slight heaviness that signals the arrival of my period. A quick check confirms my suspicion.

“Perfect timing,” I mutter, digging through my drawer for supplies. This isn’t necessarily an unexpected development, but it does complicate my plans for the evening with Dean. We haven’t discussed this particular aspect of biology yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready to have that conversation.

So I send him a quick text.

Me_: I need to cancel tonight. Rain check?_

His response comes almost immediately.

Dean: Everything okay?

I hesitate, debating how much to share. Dean and I have been intimate for weeks now, but talking about my menstrual cycle feels like a different kind of vulnerability. He’s not my boyfriend. And though I’m not well versed in the rules of having a friend with benefits, I think this falls outside the range.

Me: Yeah, just not feeling great. Need a night in.

Three dots appear, then his reply.

Dean: Want company? I can bring dinner.

The offer is tempting, but I shake my head at my phone.

Me: Thanks, but I already ate, and I think I’m just going to crash early. See you tomorrow?

A longer pause this time.

Dean: Are you sure you’re okay?

I sigh. Dean’s perceptiveness, usually something I appreciate, is inconvenient right now.

Me: I’m fine, I promise. Just tired.

Dean: You’re not upset about something, are you?

The concern in his message makes my chest tighten. Part of me wants to just tell him the truth, but another part—the part that’s still adjusting to this new level of intimacy between us—holds back.

Dean: If this is about today, what happened in the library…

I reply before he can finish that thought.

Me: I liked what happened in the library.

Dean: Me too.

Me: Everything’s okay. Just need a night to myself.

Actually, I might need 5-7 days by myself…

I set my phone down and head for the shower, hoping hot water will ease the cramps that are beginning to intensify. By the time I return to my room, wrapped in my robe with hair dripping, Sadie has arrived.

“Hey,” she says, looking up from her laptop. “I thought you’d be at Dean’s by now.”

“Change of plans,” I say, pulling on my comfort clothes—worn sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. “Aunt Flo decided to visit.”

“Ah,” Sadie nods in understanding. “Does Dean know that’s why you canceled?”

I shake my head. “I just told him I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Which isn’t untrue,” she points out. “But why not just tell him the real reason?”

I shrug, settling onto my bed with my heating pad. “I don’t know. It feels… weird. We haven’t reached the period talk stage yet.”

Sadie rolls her eyes. “You’ve had his dick in your mouth, but you can’t tell him you’re menstruating? That’s some internalized patriarchal bullshit right there.”

I chuckle, shaking my head.

“It’s not that,” though maybe it is a little. “It’s just… I don’t know. Private.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “And nothing else about your relationship with Dean is private?”

I throw a pillow at her, which she catches easily. “You’re not helpful.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” she counters. “I’m helping you realize your own emotional constipation.”

Before I can respond, my phone rings. Dean’s name lights up the screen.

“Speaking of emotional constipation,” Sadie says with a smirk.

I answer, trying to sound normal despite the cramps now twisting my insides. “Hey.”

“Hey,” his voice is low, concerned. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You never cancel last minute.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, catching Sadie’s judgmental look from across the room. “Really. Just not up for company tonight.”

“Are you sick? Do you need anything?” The genuine worry in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest, despite my discomfort.

“I’m not sick, I’m just—” I hesitate, then sigh. “I got my period, okay? I’m crampy and not feeling particularly sexy right now.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end. “That’s it? That’s why you canceled?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?” I bristle slightly. “It’s a legitimate reason.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he says quickly. “I just meant… you didn’t have to hide that from me. We could have just hung out. Watched a movie or something.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure why this surprises me. “I just thought…”

“That I’d be weird about it?” I can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Nora, I grew up with a single mom and I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. Periods aren’t exactly a mystery to me.”

I feel my face heat with embarrassment. “Right. Of course.”

“So,” he continues, “can I still come over? I’ll bring that double chocolate ice cream you like from Miller’s.”

The offer is tempting—more than tempting. “Sadie’s here,” I warn.

“I don’t mind if she doesn’t.”

I glance at Sadie, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop. “Hold on.” I cover the phone. “Dean wants to come over with ice cream. That okay with you?”

“Ice cream?” Her eyes light up. “Hell yes. Tell Hot Hockey Boy he’s welcome anytime he brings dessert.”

I roll my eyes and return to the call. “Sadie says it’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” There’s a pause, then, softer, “I missed you today.”

The simple admission makes my heart flutter embarrassingly. “I missed you too,” I say quietly.

We hang up, and I catch Sadie’s knowing smirk. “Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, raising her hands innocently. “But if I did, it would be something about how you’re falling hard for this guy.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Because she’s right, and we both know it.

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at our door. Sadie hops up to answer it, swinging the door open with a flourish.

“Dean Carter,” she announces dramatically. “Bearer of ice cream and crusher of hockey pucks. Enter, good sir.”

Dean looks slightly bemused as he steps inside, a grocery bag in one hand. “Hey, Sadie.”

His eyes find mine immediately, concern evident in his expression as he takes in my curled-up position on the bed, heating pad clutched to my abdomen.

“Hey,” he says, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” I admit. “But the heating pad helps.”

He sets the bag on my nightstand, pulling out not just ice cream but also a chocolate bar, a bottle of Advil, and a small package of what looks like herbal tea.

“I wasn’t sure what you might need,” he explains at my surprised expression. “So I covered the basics.”

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, touched by the thoughtfulness.

“I wanted to.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so tender it makes my throat tight. “Besides, you’d do the same for me.”

“You planning on getting a period anytime soon, Carter?” Sadie quips from her desk.

He shoots her a look. “You know what I mean.”

I reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you. This is… really nice.”

Dean smiles—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his usually serious face. “You’re welcome.” He leans in and presses a light kiss to my forehead, then my lips, mindful of Sadie’s presence.

The domesticity of the moment strikes me—Dean bringing me period supplies, sitting on my bed looking concerned, the casual affection between us. It feels relationship-like in a way that catches me off guard. We’ve had plenty of hot moments, even shared personal stories—but this feels different. More intimate somehow.

“I should go,” Dean says after a moment, clearly conscious of Sadie’s presence. “Let you rest. But text me if you need anything else, okay?”

“You can stay for a bit,” I offer. “If you want. We could watch something on my laptop?”

He hesitates, glancing at Sadie.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, gathering her books. “I was heading to the study lounge anyway. Some of us don’t have hot hockey players bringing us ice cream and have to actually work for our grades.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Dean and I say almost simultaneously.

Sadie laughs. “Cute. But seriously, I do need to finish this paper, and the lighting is better in the lounge. Just don’t have sex in my bed, okay?”

“Sadie!” I protest, heat flooding my face.

She grins, unrepentant, as she heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Enjoy your ice cream!”

The door closes behind her, leaving Dean and me alone in the suddenly quiet room.

“Sorry about her,” I say, still embarrassed.

“Don’t be.” He kicks off his shoes and settles more comfortably beside me on the narrow bed. “I like that you have someone looking out for you.”

I shift to make room for him, wincing slightly as another cramp twists through me. Dean notices immediately.

“Bad?” he asks, his hand moving to my lower back, rubbing gently.

“Medium,” I admit. “The first day is always the worst.”

He continues the gentle massage, his large hand warm through my T-shirt. The slight pressure eases the ache, and I find myself relaxing against him.

“Better?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Mmm,” I murmur, too comfortable to form words. His touch is soothing rather than sexual, caring rather than controlling. It’s a new side of Dean—one I’m still getting used to.

I like it way more than I should.

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Now, how about that ice cream?”

I smile up at him, suddenly overwhelmed with affection for this man who showed up at my door with chocolate and painkillers just because I had cramps. Who’s now holding me like I’m something precious, asking nothing in return.

“Dean?” I say quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you came over.”

He smiles, that rare, genuine expression that always catches me off guard. “Me too.”

We don’t talk about Daphne’s sweater or the larger issue of coming clean to her. We don’t discuss the implications of Dean’s appearance at my door with period supplies. We don’t analyze what it means that he’s content to just hold me while I’m crampy and decidedly unsexy.

Instead, we eat ice cream straight from the container, watch bad reality TV on my laptop, and exist in a bubble of comfortable intimacy that feels dangerously close to something I’m not ready to name.

But as Dean’s arms tighten around me, his chest warm against my back, I realize that maybe names don’t matter. Maybe what matters is this—the feeling of safety, of being seen and accepted exactly as I am.

Maybe what matters is that for the first time in my life, I’m not calculating risks or weighing consequences or planning ten steps ahead.

I’m just being. And it feels like enough.