Page 30 of White Wings of Desire

In the bathroom, it doesn't take long for the reality of the situation to hit me like a ton of bricks when I see the blood stains on the toilet paper.

Fuck.

I try to be as quiet as possible and dig through the cabinets in the bathroom, searching for tampons, pads, or anything useful, but I'm out of luck. My stomach sinks at the thought of having to face him in this vulnerable state. But, I also don't want to be bleeding all over the place.

I take a deep breath and head back to the bedroom, where I find he has turned on the light on his nightstand and is leaning against the headboard, taking a sip of water.

"Please tell me that with all the stuff you got for me, you also bought period products." He looks at me with furrowed brows, and it seems to take his sleepy brain a moment to figure out what I mean.

"You mean like tampons and so on?"

"Yes," I answer, fisting the fabric of my nightgown with my sweaty palms.

"No, I didn't think of that. Don't you have some of those things in your purse for emergencies? I’ll buy you whatever you need tomorrow."

"I don't have any. I gave it to one of my friends at the cabin."

He remains silent as he looks me up and down. Unable to read the blank look on his face, an uneasy feeling rises in my stomach, a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment. I fidget with the hem of my gown, waiting for his answer. My head jerks up, and my eyes widen as he kicks the blanket off himself and gets out of bed, handing me his phone from the nightstand.

"Save me some pictures of the brands you use, and I’ll run to the store and get you everything you need," he says with a sigh, not sounding one bit annoyed, just really sleepy. He disappears into the walk-in closet, and I look down at his phone in my hand. The web browser is already open; I quickly search for what I need and save the pictures to his gallery.

"Want me to come with you?" I ask when he comes back wearing a matching set of black sweats.

"No, you stay here. Make yourself comfortable in bed, on the toilet, or wherever you prefer in this situation. I'll try to be quick." He takes his phone back from me.

"Are you really going to leave me alone in your house? Aren't you worried that I'll try to run away?"

"No, it's the middle of the night, and you have no idea where we are exactly. If you go to my neighbors, they'll think you're crazy and might shoot you for trespassing. And if you decided to run, you wouldn't get far in your condition," he says, placing a kiss on the top of my head. "I'll be right back." With that, he leaves the bedroom, and a minute later, the sound of his car engine breaks the silence of the night.

I grab a towel from the bathroom and climb back into bed, pulling my legs up to my chest and burying my face in my knees. No one has ever done this for me, gone out of their way to make sure I have everything I need in this situation. Not even my parents. A flood of memories from my teenage years flashes before my eyes. The numerous times I had to go without anything because my parents didn't want to waste money on me; drugs were always more important.

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes while my hormones play games with my emotions. How is it that someone like him, the man responsible for what should be a nightmare, who is supposed to hate and kill me, is able to treat me with such dignity? It's bizarre to feel cared for by someone who should be my enemy.

Half an hour later, I hear the sound of the car engine again, and Noah walks back into the bedroom right after with a cigarette in his mouth, carrying a bag from one of the few twenty-four-hour stores.

"I think I found everything." He holds the bag out to me.

"Thanks." I jump out of bed and snatch it from his hand. Standing in front of him, the gray smoke of the burning cigarette between his lips wraps around me. "Can you maybe not smoke in the bedroom? It makes me feel nauseous."

He looks back and forth between me and the cigarette. "Sure," he says, takes the cigarette from his lips, walks over to his bedside table, where he has an ashtray, and stubs out the remains.

I smile at him before rushing to the bathroom, slamming the door, and locking myself in. Looking through the items, I notice he bought more than enough: three packs of each, plus ibuprofen and gel heat patches. I freshen up, apply one of the heat patches to my skin, and take one of the pills.

Feeling clean and fresh, I walk back into the bedroom and freeze at the sight of Noah back in bed, his clothes off, with a pink plush bunny sitting next to him on my side while he pulls a matching fluffy blanket out of its packaging. There are also chocolates and other small snacks on my bedside table.

My mouth falls open in shock. "What is all this stuff?" I ask, my eyes wide.

His head jerks in my direction, and he blinks a few times, looking back and forth between me and the pink items, a stark contrast to the black sheets.

"They’re for you. I read some more about what else I can do, and it said snacks, and a cozy environment. But I don't have anything to make my bed more cozy, so when I saw these items on the way to the register, I thought it looked cute and got it." The confusion on my face must be doing something, because Noah raises his eyebrows and looks at the items, then back at me, at the items, at me. "Is it too childish? It's over the top; I can see you don't like it." He pauses. "I'll bring it back tomorrow."

"No," I say, almost shouting the word. In three big steps, I'm at his side of the bed and climb in beside him, ripping the blanket from his hands and hugging it to my chest. Burying my face in the soft fabric, the subtle scent of lavender fills my nostrils; it is a scented blanket. My nose betrays me as soft sobs, muffled by the blanket on my face, fill the somewhat quiet room.

"Are you crying?" he asks, putting an arm around my shoulders, coaxing me closer to his side. I nod my head and lean into his embrace, letting him guide me to lie back down with him. The fluffy blanket getting squeezed between us, his arms wrapped around me. "Why?"

"Just my hormones, nothing more," I say between quiet sobs, keeping my face hidden. His actions are an odd mix of concern and cruelty, and I can't make sense of him–as if this whole ordeal wasn’t embarrassing enough. I won't admit to him that I'm crying because of his kindness, a kindness that is new to me and that I would never have expected from a man like him. He is a paradox.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hol—" An elderly woman's soft voice startles me awake, cutting off mid-sentence as a somewhat cheerful shriek follows. Noah, who has his arms wrapped around me from behind, his face buried into the nape of my neck, jerks back and springs to a sitting position. His hair is a mess, sticking out in all directions.

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