Chapter Twenty-One – Fawn #2
I don’t hesitate. I slip an arm under her knees, the other behind her back, scooping her up, wedding style. She turns her head into my chest, like she doesn’t want me to look at her, like she’s ashamed. She shouldn’t be. There’s nothing shameful about pain.
Fuck, she feels so fragile in my arms as I carry her out of the kitchen to the couch, lowering her as carefully as possible.
“I’m gonna get you some pain relief,” I tell her, already rummaging through my pocket to get my phone.
She flinches against me, a tremor rolling through her shoulders she can’t control. With an idea in mind, I call Dylan. It keeps ringing before going straight to voicemail. Shaking my head, I hang up and call again; this time, he answers after the second ring.
“Hello, my dude!” he shouts above some pop song. He’s definitely driving and tapping to the music on the steering wheel.
“I need your help,” I say hastily, trying to whisper so as not to spook Fawn.
“I’ve heard that before,” he deadpans. “Whose car are we taking this time?”
“It’s Fawn—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “Where are you? I’ll be there,” he says, his voice sharp with worry.
“No — no,” I say, running my hand through my hair as another wave of pain shakes Fawn’s body.
“I need you to stop at a pharmacy and pick up some pain meds. She’s in a lot of—” I struggle to come up with the right way to phrase this without sounding like a complete idiot.
“Uhh. A lot of woman pain.” I start pacing.
“Dude, she’s hurting, and I don’t know what to do. ”
“Stay with her,” Dylan replies right away. “Send me the address. I’ll pick up everything and then head there.”
I end the call and shoot him the address.
Fawn uncurls a little, and I move back to her side, lowering myself down onto my knees beside the couch, grounding myself before I speak. “How are you feeling?”
She shifts as she presses her palm flat against her stomach. When she looks at me, her eyes are glassy and tired. “I . . . I think it’s dying down a little.”
“That’s good.” I lean in until we’re level. Face to face. Close enough to see the tremble of her eyelashes. “Do you need anything? A drink? I know it’s warm, but if you want a blanket, let me know.”
She lets out a small, involuntary whimper. “No, thank you.”
I breathe out slowly. Without thinking about it too much, my hand goes up to the top of her head and gently brushes through her hair, as if I might break her if I touch her the wrong way.
She swallows hard and somehow manages to summon enough strength to push herself up onto her elbows. Her legs fall slightly apart as she shakes from head to toe. She pushes herself upright and lets out a breath.
I maneuver, sitting at the end of the couch beside her feet, close enough to reach out in case she’s about to fall but far enough away not to overwhelm her. “Easy,” I whisper. “Just breathe.”
The door catches her attention. Her brow furrows. Mine would too, probably — I rub my neck instead.
“Yeah. Shit. Sorry about your door.” I gesture vaguely at the splintered frame. “I broke it open. Didn’t really think it through. But don’t worry. I’m handy. I’ll fix it.” Her eyes grow soft, even as her body rebels.
“Dylan will be here soon,” I tell her. “He’s going out to get you some medication. Hopefully he knows what to get.”
She winces and shakes her head. “Oh, he doesn’t have to. I’ll get through the pain.”
“Too late,” I answer, stroking her ankle lightly. “He’s already at the pharmacy by now.”
She moves to shift her weight to push herself from the couch, but my hand grasps hers to help guide her right back down.
“Hey, hey. Sit,” I order as my tone makes my message clear without being harsh.
“But, but . . .”
Tenderly, I pull her until she’s sitting beside me again. “No buts, missy.”
She has hardly sat down before she doubles over in pain. A shudder runs through her body as another wave hits her hard. Again, instinctively, she seizes my hand.
“It’s okay. I’m here . . .” I remind her.
The steady rise and fall of her chest begins to falter. “Ugh,” she groans, “I haven’t felt these pains since last year.” Her forehead almost touches her knees.
I scoot closer, one hand finding the small of her back to steady her with the other hand, our fingers entwined. I can tell her pain is starting to subside as her breathing returns to normal.
She lifts herself as if testing whether she can. I place of arm behind her head, easing her down like something precious. “Come here. You need a hug.”
She doesn’t hesitate and presses against me. Her head lays on my chest. The way she lets her breath out before taking it in again makes me realize she’s trying to accept the space that’s there for her.
“I’m not used to this . . .” she mumbles into my shirt.
“What? Hugs?” I try to tease lightly.
“No. Someone who actually cares about my pain. My ex used to say my pain wasn’t that bad. That I was being a drama queen.”
I turn rigid. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking . . .”
She doesn’t answer, which is enough of an answer.
A simmering, angry burn ignites in my chest — it’s sharp and needs no direction.
I don’t even know exactly what she’s dealing with or why it’s happening to her, but seeing her fight through genuine pain, the type that distorts her body and takes her breath? I could never dismiss her like that.
“I’d be lying on the floor, crying,” she continues quietly, “and he’d make jokes. Said the pain was equal to getting hit in the balls.”
I don’t even have words for a second. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because everything I want to say isn’t exactly nice.
My grip on her tightens. Speechless or not, she’s safe in my arms now.
Clearing my throat, I’m having to pull the breath back in for something lighter before the anger in my chest gets the better of me.
I hesitate.
Fuck it. Perhaps by telling her something, it might distract her from the pain.
“My ex was pretty awful too. We were going to get married, but I came home from the Army on leave . . . and there was another man in her house. She told me she hated being alone.” I let out a humorless laugh. “Three months later, she was engaged to him. I blamed my father.”
She tilts her head back to look at me, a crease forming between her brows.
“Every man in my family has served in the Army straight out of school. I was taught by my father I needed to serve. I never wanted to. I was interested in cars. He said it would turn me into a man. So I did, for five years.” Something tightens in my throat and won’t let go.
“I blamed him for why my ex cheated. If I hadn’t left, if I hadn’t followed what he wanted, maybe we would have been fine—” I finally swallow.
“After he died, everything . . . fell apart. I was a wreck. Got discharged on honorable medical grounds. Depression and PTSD.”
For a moment, silence hangs between us.
Fawn’s hand touches my knee softly. Her fingers are warm and shake a little from her cramps, but her touch feels grounding.
“Oh, Torin, I can’t even imagine the pain you felt and what you went through . . .” she whispers sincerely.
She’s still in pain, I can sense it, and yet here she is — reaching past it, caring about me.
“You’ve helped me so much over the week,” her voice soft. “If you ever need to talk . . . I’m here.”
“Fawn, you’re literally in pain, and you’re worried about me?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her palm settles against my cheek. “I’m here if you ever need me, Torin.”
The air goes out of me and doesn’t come back the way it should.
Without considering the consequences, I lean forward to place a tentative kiss on the top of her forehead. Her warm skin feels soft beneath my lips. “You’re . . . something.” The words escape on their own.
She lifts her head, and our eyes meet. Everything else fades — the broken door, the pain, the garden outside, the sound of her breathing.
It’s just us. Me and her.
And the quiet thrum of something unbearable and magnetic between us.
Her tongue flicks out, a fast, tiny thing, wetting her bottom lip. Then, she lifts her face just a little.
I lower mine . . .
Her breath tickles my lips when—
BAM! The front door crashes open, hitting the wall hard enough to leave a mark.
“YOOOOO! I’ve got everything!” Dylan bellows.
Fawn flinches, making me blink. The whole moment, ruined.
Dylan is in the doorway, holding three pharmacy bags and a sports drink, a super smug look on his face. Then, he drops down on his knees like Santa Claus delivering presents, tearing open the pharmacy bags to unload all the contents onto the coffee table.
When he said he bought everything, he meant it — including period products, probably the whole aisle.
He holds up a red box triumphantly. “And! I got you strawberries dipped in chocolate. Because chocolate helps with period pain and the strawberries count toward one of your five a day . . .” He grins broadly, like he’s just discovered the cure for something.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dylan, for fuck’s sake. She’s not having her period. She’s got PC . . . PC. Uhh—” I stop, forgetting what it’s already called. “PCOS.” I snap my fingers, suddenly remembering.
Even though Fawn looks like she’s ready to double over again, she still manages to look impressed that I care enough to remember what’s wrong with her.
Dylan’s smirk falters. His hand goes to the back of his head. “Is that like . . . sexually transmitted?”
Lord, if you can hear, please do not give me strength, because I’m going to beat him.
I swear, my soul just tried to escape my body.
Fawn giggles then quickly grabs her stomach with a little whine.
Dylan’s face falls, a frown creasing his forehead. “Hey! I was just asking, okay? Didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“It’s something to do with her ovaries,” I start, making sure my voice is calm. “Not an STI, you jackass.”
Dylan’s mouth forms a perfect O of realization. Then, he nods, like that clears everything up.
“Ohhh. Right. Totally different thing. Got it.”
I hold his gaze and say nothing.
Fawn tries hard not to laugh again, but a warm smile crosses her face when she looks at all the stuff he bought her. “Thank you, Dylan,” she says softly. “You didn’t have to buy out the whole feminine section of the store; it probably cost a fortune. But honestly, thank you.”
Dylan radiates pride, as if he just scored a winning goal in overtime.
I pop open one of the meds containers and shake two pills into my palm. I let her have them, along with the cranberry juice he’d bought. She readily takes them, swallowing them whole.
But then, her brows pull together, and she looks between us — still pale, still shaky, but finally thinking past the pain. “Wait . . . why are you here? At my house?”
I snatch the notebook from the floor. “This fell out of your purse in the truck. Just returning.”
She flushes. Looks down and doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Dylan leans back and smirks “Such a gentleman.”
He’s such a sarcastic fuck.
The second I mentioned I found the notebook, he didn’t hesitate and basically ordered me to bring it straight here — or else he’d do it himself.
My eyes shoot him a look that could peel paint. He just wiggles his perfect eyebrows.
But my stomach drops as soon as I lay eyes on Fawn’s warm gaze. Her eyes hold me for one more moment.
Be still, stupid heart.
“Anyway,” I say, attempting to seem casual, “I wasn’t just breaking into your house for fun.”
Dylan snorts. “By looking at the door, you did it SWAT-team style.”
Fawn laughs weakly and then winces, pressing her hand to her stomach.
Instantly, all my attention turns back to her. “Easy,” I tell her, leaning forward. “Let the meds kick in.”
Her eyes flutter closed, and she nods. Dylan plops down beside her like he owns the house and places the chocolate strawberries carefully in her lap.
“Here,” he says, nudging the box closer to her. “Have a snack. It might make you feel better, princess.”
I slap my thighs. “Okay. I’m gonna go get the toolbox out of the truck and repair the door before it falls off its hinges.”
Walking toward the hallway, I stop when I hear her voice, quiet and a little shaky. “Thank you, Torin.”
I turn back. She’s watching me with that gentle, tired look in her eyes — it feels like it’s penetrating straight through my ribs to my heart.
Her fingers are resting on the strawberry box Dylan dumped on her lap.
Dylan is talking away, but her eyes are on me.
Soft. Thankful. Trusting in a way I don’t know if I deserve.
Something in my chest settles. I hold her gaze and nod, once, like a promise. Then, I head toward the broken door, toolbox waiting in the truck, trying to ignore how badly I want to stay right there on that couch beside her.