32. Megan
Chapter 32
Megan
By Friday, my period is lighter, but the same cannot be said for my mood, or the headache that's dancing on the edge of becoming a migraine.
The only thing I can do when I get home is change into comfy clothes, curl up on the sofa, and let my body fall into a much needed nap. I don’t know how long I’ve been there when the living room door clicks open, and I squeeze my eyes shut as light floods in from the hallway.
“Megan?” Ollie calls out, hovering cautiously in the doorway. “You’re not doing the freak mask again are you?”
“No, you’re safe,” I groan from behind the pillow I want to sink my teeth into.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, flicking on the corner lamp and angling it away from me.
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
He drops to his knees in front of the sofa and presses the backs of his fingers to my forehead. That simple, cool touch soothes me more than any painkiller.
“You don’t seem fine,” he whispers. When he gives my shoulder a rub, the tears come.
“I’m just tired.” I tell him, curling my body around a pillow.
“Are you sick?”
“No.” I really don’t need him to know about the inner workings of my body right now. “It’s just a little headache and… girl stuff.”
“Do you have endometriosis?” I open my eyes and find him staring at my confused and no doubt hideous, puffy face. “Three sisters, remember. Two of them have it.”
“No, I don't.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine.” I boost myself up in an attempt to prove it to both him and myself, but the change in direction has me wincing.
“Liar. Would a bath help? I'll run you one.”
“You don’t have—”
“I’m doing it,” he says, already halfway out the door.
My lip wobbles, not from the pain, but from one tiny act of kindness. I didn’t even want a bath until he offered, but I know it will make me feel better, and right now I feel more seen than I have in a long time.
“It’s ready when you are,” he calls through a few minutes later, and I fold my blankets and plump the sofa cushions to make our shared space nice for him too.
In the bathroom I find the tub full of bubbles, one candle flickering gently on the windowsill. There’s a glass of water on the side, and he’s left some painkillers within reach, too. A lump forms in my throat.
“Ollie, this is so nice. Thank you.”
“Do you need anything else? That weird ice cap thing for your head?”
“Oh, yes please,” I groan. He’s only seen me use that once, but of course he remembers.
That’s Ollie for you. He pays attention, notices things, actually listens to what you have to say. He darts to the kitchen, and the lump swells as I watch him go. I can barely speak when I see the smile on his face as he returns.
“Right, you just relax, and I’ll sort dinner. Anything in particular you fancy?”
You.
“No, thank you. This is perfect.”
The bathwater is the perfect temperature, immediately soothing the aches I feel all over. I shove the ice cap over my eyes and sink lower. The combination of my warm body and cold scalp works some magic on the headache, and within a few minutes I can feel it retreating, held at bay for now.
This is heaven. I can’t remember the last time anyone did something this nice for me. If only I could find a man who’d treat me like this, one who isn’t nearly a decade younger than me and my temporary roommate.
When I'm done wallowing, I pat myself dry and change back into my clothes. My t-shirt smells like it needs a wash, so I throw on a hoodie Ollie’s left on the back of the bathroom door instead. His lingering scent is a comfort, like being wrapped in a hug with none of the awkwardness.
I skip washing my hair, but plait it into two braids, then massage night-cream all over my face. I might feel like garbage, but I can at least make sure I don’t look like a total mess.
In the kitchen, Ollie is singing away while he chops vegetables. He’s changed out of his work clothes into slouchy shorts and a light grey t-shirt. I hang back and stay quiet, watching him occupy the space where I never thought he would fit in. He certainly looks at home when he clocks me ogling him, flinging the tea towel over his shoulder and leaning back against the counter.
“There she is. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you. Can I just grab more water?” I motion towards the sink and he steps aside so I can squeeze past and re-fill my glass. “What’s all this?”
“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for food wise, so I have three options for you.”
“You didn’t have—” I’m interrupted when he presses a finger to my lips, sending sparks coursing through my body.
“I know I didn't, but I want to take care of you.”
A deeply buried part of me wants to poke my tongue out and taste him, but when his gaze lingers on my mouth for a second too long, he yanks his hand away and tucks it behind his back.
“So, option one, I bought cartons of soup and a fresh baguette. Option two, we order in the biggest, greasiest pizza this town has ever seen, stuffed crust, obviously. Option three, we have a picky tea and watch a film of your choosing.”
“Picky tea?” I laugh.
“Picky tea,” he repeats with conviction. “Girl dinner. Charcuterie. Nibbles. Whatever you want to call it.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says with a warm, wide smile. Beneath his hoodie, my nipples pinch into tight, needy points.
Why does he have to be so kind and generous? So gorgeous, and young, and completely wrong for me? Why does my body have to react so inappropriately whenever he’s this close, and why does it want him even closer? Why do I wish he would grab me and kiss me and fill his big hands with my thighs and my breasts and—
I’m so wrapped up in my dirty thoughts about him, it takes a second to notice his smile has dropped and been replaced with a scowl. I don’t know how long we’ve been staring at each other and when he swallows hard, I blink and look away.
“Grey looks good on you,” he chokes out, and I follow his gaze down to my chest.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, I thought it was mine,” I lie. “I just grabbed it straight from the shower.”
“You're naked under there?” When I nod, he sweeps one hand over his face. “Fuck my life.”
“I'll wash it.”
His eyes take a tour of my body and the thought that he might be picturing what’s underneath sends the ember in my belly sparking even more. “You can keep it. I have others. I’ll plate this stuff up. Can you set us up at the coffee table and pick a film?”
While I get to work gathering napkins and water glasses, I catch him adjusting the front of his shorts, and I hate that it turns me on even more.