Chapter Twenty-One
Uncharted Territory
Crew
Something’s wrong with Emmie.
I notice it the second I walk through the door. The apartment is quiet—no music playing, no pots clanging, no cheerful humming from the kitchen. The lights are dim. Murphy is sitting outside the closed door to her bedroom, meowing plaintively.
“Emmie?”
No answer.
I set down my bag, my brain already cycling through possibilities. Did something happen? Is she hurt? Did someone—
“Emmie.” I knock on her door. “You okay?”
A muffled groan. “I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. I’ve learned her well enough by now to know what fine sounds like, and that isn’t it.
“Can I come in?”
A pause. Then: “Yeah.”
I push open the door and find her curled into a ball in the center of her bed, wrapped in approximately seven blankets despite the fact that it’s seventy-two degrees in the apartment.
Her hair is piled in a messy bun. She’s wearing my hoodie—when did she steal my hoodie?
—and clutching a pillow to her stomach like a life raft.
I have no idea what’s wrong, but I do know I’m about to fix it—by any means necessary.
“Hey.” She gives me a weak smile. “How was work?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just…” She shifts, winces. “Lady stuff. It’s fine.”
Lady stuff. It takes me a second, and then—oh. Oh.
I have absolutely no idea what to do with this information.
“Right.” I stand in the doorway like an idiot. “Do you need… something?”
“I’m okay. Just riding it out.” She curls tighter around the pillow. “Sorry I didn’t make dinner. There’s leftover pasta in the fridge if you—”
“I don’t care about dinner.”
“Crew, I’m fine, really. This happens every month. I just need to—” She breaks off, squeezing her eyes shut, and I watch her face contort with what is clearly not fine.
“What helps?” The question comes out more demanding than I intend. “When this happens. What helps?”
She blinks at me. “What?”
“You’re in pain. There must be something that helps. Heat? Medication? What do you need?”
“I…” She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Um. I took some ibuprofen already. And I have a heating pad somewhere, but I think it’s in a box I haven’t unpacked yet.”
“Where?”
“Crew, you don’t have to—”
“Where’s the box?”
She points vaguely toward her closet. “Maybe in there? It’s got kitchen stuff written on it, but I definitely didn’t pack it right, so—”
I’m already moving, pulling open her closet door and scanning the stack of boxes she still hasn’t fully unpacked. Kitchen stuff. I find it, pull it down, and start digging through a chaotic jumble of dish towels, a broken toaster, and what appears to be a collection of novelty spatulas.
“It might not even be in there,” she says. “I honestly can’t remember where I—”
I hold up the heating pad.
“Oh.” She almost smiles. “You found it.”
“Where do I plug this in?”
“There’s an outlet by the bed, but Crew, seriously, you don’t have to—”
I’m already plugging it in, already turning it on, already bringing it over to her. She takes it with a look of bewildered gratitude and tucks it against her stomach, sighing as the warmth hits.
“Thank you.”
“What else?”
“What?”
“What else helps?” I’m standing by her bed with my hands at my sides, feeling useless and out of my depth and desperate to fix this somehow. “There has to be something else.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me with an expression I can’t read. “Tea helps sometimes. The ginger one, in the cabinet above the stove.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s chocolate in the far back kitchen drawer. The good stuff, not that waxy crap.”
“Okay.”
“And sometimes…” She hesitates. “Sometimes it helps to not be alone. But you don’t have to—”
“I’ll be right back.”
I go to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and find the ginger tea—she has approximately nine thousand different varieties of tea, but the ginger is in a yellow box, easy to spot. I pull down her favorite mug, the oversized one with the cartoon cat on it that says “I do what I want.”
While the water boils, I stand in the kitchen and pull out my phone.
What helps with period cramps, I type into the search bar.
The results are overwhelming. Heat, yes, I’ve got that. Hydration. Gentle movement, though she doesn’t look like she’s moving anywhere. Magnesium. Dark chocolate—already on it. Comfort and emotional support.
I stare at that last one.
Comfort and emotional support.
I stare at those words.
I’ve provided tactical support in active shooter situations. I’ve provided logistical support for multi-agency operations. I’ve provided backup for Foster when he decided to chase a suspect through a shopping mall during the Christmas rush.
But comfort and emotional support? Not in my skill set.
I consider texting Foster. He grew up with sisters. He might know what to do. But then I imagine the conversation—hey, Emmie has her period and I don’t know how to help—and I can already hear his laughter from here. He’d never let me live it down.
I pull up Google again.
How to comfort someone on their period.
The results are both helpful and horrifying. Apparently, I should “validate her feelings” and “offer physical affection without expecting anything in return” and “just listen without trying to fix it.”
Don’t try to fix it? That goes against every instinct I have. What the hell would be the point.
The whole point is that I do want to fix it.
I scroll further. One article suggests “simply being present and available.” Another recommends “gentle touch, like rubbing her back or playing with her hair.”
I’ve never played with anyone’s hair in my entire life.
Another article says “ask her what she needs instead of assuming.”
Okay maybe that one I can do. I’m good at gathering intel.
The kettle whistles. I pour the tea, grab the chocolate from the drawer, and then stand awkwardly at the foot of her bed while she watches me with increasingly wide eyes.
“Can I…?” I gesture vaguely at the empty space beside her.
“You want to get in bed with me?”
“You said it helps to not be alone.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually—” She stops. Swallows. “Yeah. Okay. You can—yes.”
I toe off my shoes. Hesitate for a second, then I climb onto the bed and sit against the headboard, stiff as a board, unsure what to do with my limbs.
Emmie is staring at me like I’ve just performed a magic trick.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just—” She shakes her head. “Thank you. For the tea. And the heating pad. And the…” She gestures at me, at the bed, at the situation. “This.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Yeah, but most guys would just… I don’t know. Leave me alone. Tell me to take a Midol and tough it out.”
“That’s stupid. You’re clearly uncomfortable.”
“It’s just cramps, Crew. It’s not like I’m dying.”
“You’re hurting,” I say. “That matters.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and her eyes go glassy. Oh no. That’s not—I didn’t mean to—
“Sorry.” She swipes at her face with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Hormones. I cry at everything when I’m like this. I cried at a commercial yesterday. It was about paper towels.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not.” I hesitate, then reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “You say that now. Wait until I start crying about the paper towels.”
“Were they very absorbent?”
“So absorbent, Crew. They soaked up an entire juice spill in like two seconds. But that’s not why I cried.
There was this really chubby, happy baby in the commercial; he’s the one who made the mess with the juice, and…
” She draws a shaky breath. “And then I started thinking about how I want that someday. A chubby baby making messes in my kitchen. A family. And then I started thinking about how I’m twenty-seven and single—”
She pulls the blanket tighter around herself.
“And then I started thinking about how I can’t even keep a real boyfriend, and maybe there’s something wrong with me, and maybe I’m too much or not enough or—” Her voice cracks.
“And then I was crying on the couch about paper towels and babies and my entire life trajectory, and I couldn’t stop.
The thought just… took over. Hijacked my whole brain. ”
Something in my chest tightens.
“I know what that’s like,” I say quietly. “When thoughts take over.”
She looks up at me, eyes wet. “You do?”
“My brain does it all the time. Spirals. Takes one small thing and turns it into a catastrophe.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “It’s exhausting.”
“Yeah.” She sniffles. “It really is.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Murphy meows from somewhere in the apartment, offended that the bedroom door is still closed.
“I just always thought I’d have it figured out by now, you know?” Emmie says. “My parents were married at twenty-three. My mom was pregnant with Gavin at twenty-five. And here I am, almost twenty-eight, and the closest thing I have to a relationship is a contractual obligation with subsections.”
“The subsections are very thorough.”
She laughs, wet and surprised. “They really are.” Another silence. She’s picking at a thread on the blanket, not looking at me. “Crew?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever want that? Kids. A wife. A family.”
The question lands in my chest like a punch.
Do I want kids? I’ve never let myself think about it.
Kids require stability. Patience. The ability to be present and gentle and emotionally available.
Kids require not flinching when someone touches you unexpectedly, not needing to check the locks four times before bed, not spiraling into worst-case scenarios every time something deviates from the plan.
Kids require being the kind of person I’ve never believed I could be. And a wife? Yeah, maybe. Maybe someday but I’m nowhere near ready to be someone’s husband.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I never thought I’d be any good at it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m—” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Me. I’m not exactly built for domestic life.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You found my heating pad in under two minutes. You made me tea without being asked. You’re sitting in my bed voluntarily, even though I know this is probably making your brain itch because there’s no protocol for it.”
“There’s definitely no protocol for this.”
“And yet here you are.” She reaches out and touches my hand, gentle.
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I don’t let people access. I think about my own childhood—the parade of foster homes, the instability, the never knowing where I’d be or who I’d be with. I think about how fiercely I would protect any child from ever feeling that way.
“Maybe,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I almost mean it. “I’ve never really let myself think about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because wanting things is dangerous.” The words come out before I can stop them. “When you want something, it can be taken away. It’s easier to not want anything.”
Emmie is quiet for a long moment. “That’s really sad, Crew.”
“I know.”
“You deserve to want things.”
I look at her—messy bun, my stolen hoodie, tears still drying on her cheeks—and think about all the things I’ve started wanting since she moved in.
“Maybe,” I say again.
She squeezes my hand.
“Come here,” I say, and the words are out before I can overthink them.
“What?”
“You said it helps to not be alone. And we have mandatory cuddling anyway. Might as well—” I gesture awkwardly. “Get comfortable.”
She moves slowly, like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t. I shift down the bed, adjusting the pillows, and then she’s curling into my side with the heating pad pressed against her stomach, her head on my chest, and my arm wrapped around her—and—
This is different.
This isn’t mandatory cuddle time with a timer and explicit rules about hand placement. This is her curled against me in bed. She’s in pain. She’s wearing my hoodie. And I’m holding her because I want to, not because some contract says I have to.
The realization should panic me. But I press the feelings down.
“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice small.
“Yeah.” I press my lips to the top of her head without thinking about it. “This is okay.”
We’re quiet for a while until Emmie asks, “Crew?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” She shifts to look up at me. “This isn’t in the contract. Taking care of me when I’m gross and crampy and crying about paper towels. You don’t have to do this.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
“So why are you?”
Because you take care of me every single day, and I don’t know how to say thank you.
Because the thought of you being in pain and me doing nothing about it makes me feel physically ill.
Because somewhere along the way, your comfort became more important to me than my own.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Because you’d do the same for me.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she tucks her head back against my chest and whispers, “Yeah. I would.”
We stay like that for a long time. The heating pad hums. Murphy purrs. Emmie’s breathing slowly evens out as the tension drains from her body.
“Crew?” she mumbles, half-asleep.
“Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Taking care of people.” She yawns. “You should do it more often.”
I don’t know what to say to that. No one’s ever accused me of being good at taking care of people. I’m good at tactical assessments. Good at threat analysis. Good at keeping my emotions in check.
But this—holding someone, being present, offering comfort without being asked—this is new.
And the terrifying part is how much I don’t hate it.
“Just rest,” I tell her. “I’ll be here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She’s asleep within minutes, her body warm and heavy against mine.
I should extract myself. Go eat dinner. Maintain appropriate boundaries.
Instead, I pull her closer and close my eyes.
Just for a few minutes.