Chapter 24
24
DYLAN
The air mattress squeaks under me as I shift my weight, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Sleep eludes me once again despite the late hour and how much I’m begging my racing mind to settle. It’s not the unfamiliar surroundings of my parents’ living room keeping me up. It’s her. Hunter. She’s slumped on the couch across from me, her breathing soft and steady.
And I’m lying wide awake. A moron who can’t stop replaying the accidental snuggle-in-the-deep-end debacle in the pool earlier, when our bodies tangled under the cool water. The way her curves molded against my chest, the electric slide of her bare skin on mine, the slight pierce of her belly button piercing scraping against my stomach; it’s as if every touch was tattooed on me, available to revisit whenever I feel like torturing myself. Heat unfurls over me, skull to toes, just thinking about it.
I flip onto my back with a low groan. I’m going to be dead on my feet tomorrow if I don’t get some shut-eye. But every time I close my lids, there she is. Tempting me. Taunting me.
A muffled sound breaks the silence. At first, I think it’s an animal outside, but then it comes again. A stifled moan, from the direction of the couch. My pulse quickens and my imagination runs wild. Is Hunter having a dream? The sexy kind, from the breathy way that noise escapes her?
Fuck. I must’ve racked up some serious bad-luck points somewhere. I’ve been fighting the attraction to her all damn night, and now I have to listen to her make those sounds in her sleep?
Another whine floats over, and frustration crashes through me. I’m reaching for the pillow, ready to pull it over my face to block her out, when a whimper reaches my ears.
I freeze.
Because it’s not a sound of pleasure, but of pain. An agonized cry that sends a spike of alarm through my chest.
Concern floods me, instantly replacing the frustration. I prop myself up on my elbows, squinting through the darkness at Hunter’s form on the couch. Her body is tense, curled in on itself. She shifts, another whimper escaping her.
“Hunter?” I call out. “You okay?”
No response. I sit up fully, push the bedsheet aside, and kneel beside the couch. Her face is scrunched in discomfort, even in the dim light. I try again, a little louder this time. “Hunter?”
She stirs, her eyelids fluttering open. Her gaze is unfocused. “Sorry.” Her voice is thick with pain. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What’s going on?” My concern deepens as she grimaces. She doesn’t look well. Her skin is pale despite the tan, and a sheen of sweat dots her forehead.
Hunter hesitates, looking embarrassed. She bites her lip, avoiding my gaze before admitting, “My period. It just… hit me out of nowhere. The pain’s been building for the last hour.”
I blink, not sure what to say at first. Nina’s mentioned her feminine woes to me before, but this is different. More intense. Hunter’s clearly in a lot of pain, beyond what must be normal.
“Can I help?” I offer, not sure how I can help, but wanting to do something, anything, to ease her suffering.
Hunter mutters something about painkillers, her words slurred. She’s too uncomfortable to give more than a vague answer, her breathing shallow as another wave of pain hits her.
I spring into action, grabbing my phone to use as a flashlight and making my way to the kitchen. The medicine cabinet yields a bottle of ibuprofen, and I pour a glass of cold water to go with it. As I’m closing the fridge, my gaze lands on the plate of leftover brownies we made this morning. I remove the plastic wrap and pop two of them in the microwave, the rich smell of chocolate soon filling the air.
With the emergency supplies in hand, I return to the living room. Hunter is still curled up on the couch, her hands clutching her belly. She’s trying to put on a brave face, but pain is etched in the tightness around her eyes, in the way her lips press together. I set the brownies down on the coffee table and kneel beside her, holding out the pills and water.
Hunter sits up slowly, a wince escaping as she moves. She takes the glass and medications from me. She tilts her head back, her throat working as she swallows the pills. It’s strangely intimate to be with her in the dead of night, taking care of her. She glances at the brownies with a flicker of amusement. “What are these for?”
“Nina always craves chocolate when she’s on her period. Figured it couldn’t hurt.” I give her a small smile. “Besides, it’s better to take pills on a full stomach, right?”
Hunter returns the smile, but it’s fleeting. Her face pales as she leans back, eyes squeezing shut.
“T-thanks for the thought, but I need a minute before I eat.”
I settle on the floor beside her, my back resting against the couch near her legs as I quietly will the painkillers to act faster. The silence stretches between us, broken only by Hunter’s measured breaths. I glance over at her, taking in the stiffness in her body, the furrow between her brows.
“Is it always this bad?” The question slips out. It might be insensitive; she might not be comfortable talking about it. But I can’t control the crave to learn everything about her.
Hunter hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I have a couple of conditions that make it worse than normal.”
I frown at that, concern welling up inside me. My knowledge of period pains is pretty basic, but the resignation in her voice makes it sound serious. “What conditions?”
Hunter lets out a groan, part pain, part exasperation. “You really want to talk about my reproductive health at two in the morning?”
My lips twitch despite the worry still churning in my gut. “I’m awake, and I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Hunter looks at me, her expression impossible to decipher. She sighs, the sound heavy in the night’s stillness. “PCOS and endometriosis. Both conditions cause my periods to be painful and unpredictable. That’s why tonight came as a surprise.”
I listen intently as she explains what they are. A hormonal disorder and a syndrome where tissue grows outside the uterus. She keeps her tone light and nonchalant, but the tautness in her shoulders and the way her fingers curl into the fabric of the couch are unmistakable. She’s trying to downplay it, not to make a big deal out of it, but there must be more than she’s letting on.
“Is it serious?” I’m unable to keep the concern from seeping into my voice.
Hunter tries to laugh it off. “It won’t kill me if that’s what you’re asking.” But then her expression sobers, and she adds quietly, “It could make it harder for me to have kids.”
She says it matter-of-factly, but a quiet sadness underlines her tone and it hits me hard, the thought of her carrying that weight settling heavy in my chest.
Hunter catches my expression and waves it off, forcing a smile. “The worst part is the pain, not the potential future consequences. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might not have kids naturally and have to try IVF or adopt.” She glances at me sideways, clearly uncomfortable with the more personal turn the conversation has taken. “But enough about me and my dysfunctional uterus. Distract me. Change the topic.”
I lean my head back against the cushion, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. “I have dyslexia.”
The admission surprises me. Only a handful of people know about it. My family, of course. Tristan. My serious ex-girlfriend. The teachers and specialists I’ve worked with over the years. Kelly, my assistant, because I wouldn’t survive the office otherwise. But no one else. It’s not a topic I bring up often, not an issue I care to draw attention to. I’ve hidden it behind a wall of hard work and coping strategies for most of my life.
But in the dark, with Hunter, it comes naturally to share it. To let her see a piece of me I keep locked away.
“Before I was diagnosed as a kid, it was confusing.” My voice echoes in the room’s quiet. “I didn’t understand why reading was so much harder for me than it was for the other kids in my class. Why I’d sit in front of my homework for hours while my friends could finish it in no time.”
I remember the frustration, the shame of being different, being less than. “My teachers told me to ‘try harder,’ but no matter how hard I tried, the words wouldn’t make sense. It made me feel stupid, even though I knew I wasn’t. There was this teacher who noticed every tiny mistake. She’d call me out in front of the class, sighing loudly and shaking her head like I was a lost cause.”
In the darkness, Hunter’s hand finds mine, her fingers lacing with my own. She doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need her to. Her touch, her presence, says everything.
“After a while, I learned to be quiet, to fade into the background, not to draw her attention. I started going out of my way not to make waves. Even now, I avoid conflict on reflex—as if any wrong move will bring that same crushing spotlight back onto me.
“Once I got diagnosed, things got better. My parents were supportive. They hired tutors, specialists, and anyone they thought could help me overcome it. But it never went away. Dyslexia isn’t something you can cure.”
It’s a part of me, as much as my blue eyes or my love for basketball. But I’ve learned to live with, to work around it. But the challenges are a constant. Telling Hunter, putting it into words, makes it real. It’s a pressure valve releasing inside me—a secret shared, a burden halved.
Now that I’ve started, the words flow out. “Even now, reading isn’t easy for me. It’s exhausting. Over the years, I’ve developed coping mechanisms—memorizing what certain words look like instead of reading them, using audio tools to help with long reports at work, relying on my sharp memory to get through meetings.”
Hunter listens quietly, her hand still in mine, a gentle reassurance.
“But at work, in my high-pressure job, I’m constantly terrified that someone will notice that I struggle to function at a high level, reading contracts, reports, and financial documents. It’s one of my biggest fears.” The admission leaves me exposed. “I’ve made it this far, but a part of me will always believe I’m an imposter.”
Sitting in the quiet of the night, with Hunter beside me, I realize how freeing it is to open up. For so long, I’ve carried this burden alone, hiding behind a facade of confidence and competence. But now, the mask slips a little, and I let her see the real me—the part that’s scared, flawed, and still fighting to keep up.
Hunter squeezes my hand, her voice gentle when she speaks. “Dylan, what you’ve achieved, with dyslexia, is incredible. You’re not an imposter. You’re a fighter, and you’re winning.”
Her words wash over me, a balm to my insecurities. I turn to her. Only understanding shines in her eyes, acceptance, admiration even. It’s a look that sends my pulse racing and makes me feel truly seen, perhaps for the first time.
Hunter sags back. “But gosh, Thompson, you’re the worst at cheering up people.”
“I disagree, Brolin; is that a smile on your face?”
Her lips part into a grin, and she looks at me with only one eye open. “Okay, I’m smiling, but only because it’s been a while since someone made it okay for me to be a mess.”
With me, she can be a mess whenever she wants, and I’ll gladly carry whatever weight she can’t. I hope one day, she’ll let me.