10. Casey
I knew it was coming. That’s the part that makes it worse.
A flare is never sudden, never entirely out of nowhere, but that doesn’t make it easier to manage when it finally settles in.
The ache had started two days ago, halfway through Christmas lunch, a dull, familiar pressure low in my abdomen that I’d tried to ignore while enjoying some time with my friends Iris and Brianna.
I’d shifted my weight subtly, keeping my movements efficient so they wouldn’t notice the way my body had already started to tighten against it and gone to bed early, hoping rest might take the edge off it. It hadn’t, and I should have known better, but hope is a strong motivator for ignorance.
By morning, the ache had sharpened into something heavier, deeper, the kind of pain that doesn’t spike so much as build, layering itself until it becomes impossible to separate from anything else.
My back had started to join in, with a slow, dragging pull that made standing upright feel like work, and the exhaustion that came with it had settled in just as quickly, thick and unrelenting in a way sleep never quite fixes.
The short drive home had been torture, taking far longer than it should have.
I had to keep stopping because sitting upright behind the wheel for too long made the cramping unbearable.
Thankfully, my friends understood why I’d cut our visit short, having watched me struggle through college.
Getting home late last night had been a relief.
I’d stood in the bathroom for a long time, staring at my reflection, trying to decide whether I could push through it.
Whether I could get on a plane, smile through it, keep moving, and go on this trip to Aspen.
I’d pushed through before. Jasper hated it when my period pain, as he called it, disrupted our plans.
But the thought of being trapped in that kind of pain somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by people I was still trying to keep a careful distance from, had been enough to tip the decision the other way.
So I’d texted Isabella. She knew about my condition, but I didn’t want to worry her, so I kept it simple. Vague enough not to invite questions.
I think I’m coming down with something. Probably better I sit this one out so I don’t pass it on.
It wasn’t a lie, exactly.
Just not the truth.
Now, hours later, I’m curled on the couch in the annex with the heating pad pressed low against my stomach, the steady warmth the only thing taking the edge off the deeper ache that keeps tightening and releasing in slow, deliberate waves.
I’ve shifted positions more times than I can count, trying to find something that feels manageable, but nothing lasts for long. Sitting hurts. Standing is worse. Lying down works until it doesn’t, and then I’m back to adjusting again, chasing a version of comfort that never quite settles.
A mug of tea sits on the coffee table in front of me, long since gone cold. I’d meant to drink it. I just haven’t had the energy to reach for it.
The quiet in here is different from the rest of the house, softer, more contained, but today it feels heavier, like it’s pressing in rather than wrapping around me. I listened to the faint movements from the main house earlier—doors, voices, the rhythm of people coming and going—but it’s faded now.
They’ve left.
The thought sits somewhere in the back of my mind, dull and distant.
I should feel something about that. Relief, maybe. Instead, all I feel is tired and alone and slightly weepy.
Another wave rolls through, deeper this time, and I close my eyes, focusing on breathing through it, steady and controlled, waiting for it to pass rather than fighting it. My hand presses instinctively against my abdomen, grounding more than helping, but it’s habit at this point.
This is familiar, although that doesn’t make it easy. It just means I know how long it might last.
I shift slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around myself, and for a moment I let my head fall back against the cushion, eyes still closed, letting the heat seep in where it can.
The knock comes just as I start to drift.
Firm, measured, confident.
Close enough that it pulls me back immediately.
For a second, I don’t move; my brain slow to catch up with the sound, trying to place it.
The internal door. Not the main entrance.
Which can only mean—Adriano.
I sit up too quickly, the movement sending a sharper spike of pain through my lower abdomen that makes me suck in a breath before I can stop it. “Just a second,” I call out, my voice not quite as steady as I want it to be.
I push myself upright, swinging my legs off the couch and pressing my hand briefly against the armrest as I wait for the dizziness to pass. The room tilts slightly, then settles, and I take a slow breath, straightening as much as I can.
You’re fine. Just answer the door.
I smooth a hand over my hair, then immediately regret the effort when another wave of pain follows the movement, deeper and slower this time, forcing me to pause again.
This is exactly why you didn’t go.
The thought is sharp, practical, and not particularly comforting.
“Casey?”
His voice comes through the door this time, lower, closer.
“I’m coming,” I reply, moving toward it before I can second-guess myself. I’m dressed in an oversized T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh because the thought of any clothing around my abdomen makes me want to cry. I glance down and shrug, instantly regretting it.
Each step takes more focus than it should; my body is already resisting the movement, but I push through it, reaching the door and pulling it open before I give myself time to hesitate.
He’s standing there exactly as I expect him to be—composed, controlled, his navy wool coat still on, his attention fixed fully on me the second the door opens.
His gaze moves over me once, quick but thorough, taking in more than I’d intended to show, and something in his expression tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You’re not okay.”
His voice is quieter than I expect. Not accusing or angry. It’s more of a statement of fact.
“I told Isabella I had a cold,” I say, stepping back from the doorway to let him in if he wants to. Not that the hallway suddenly feels big enough to keep him out.
His gaze moves over my face too carefully, as if looking for the lie. “That’s not a cold, though, is it?”
Of course it isn’t, but how do you tell your male employer that you have endometriosis and it’s flaring up?
Especially when that employer looks like he does.
I don’t want to explain my intimate bodily functions to him.
I fold my arms across my middle; more habit than defense. “I just need to sleep it off.”
“You should have called me.”
“I texted Isabella.”
“At six-thirty saying you couldn’t come.” His jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not the same thing. You should have told me.”
A flicker of irritation sparks through the exhaustion. “I didn’t realize my health was your concern when I’m off the clock.”
His expression shifts then, something restrained pulling tighter beneath the surface. “You were supposed to be with us. Letty was disappointed.”
The words land harder than they should.
Another cramp rolls through me before I can answer properly, low and deep and nauseating. I brace one hand briefly against the doorframe and breathe through it, willing it to pass quickly.
His eyes drop immediately to the movement.
When I look back up, he’s watching me differently now. Not confused anymore, focused concern etched on his features. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
I hate how gentle the question is. “Yesterday,” I admit.
“And you were still planning to travel?”
“I thought I could manage it.”
“Could you?”
The answer catches somewhere behind my ribs along with the pain. “I’m managing now.” I don’t know why I’m arguing when I’ve already made the decision not to travel.
“You’re barely standing.”
The irritation flares again, mostly because he isn’t entirely wrong. “I said I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look exhausted.”
“Wow, thanks for the compliment.”
Adriano sighs and brushes his hand through his hair, grasping the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you look exhausted and sick.”
“I am exhausted,” I admit.
His gaze flicks over me once more—oversized tee, bare feet, the heating pad abandoned on the sofa behind me like evidence I forgot to hide.
Then, more quietly, “What’s actually going on?”
For a second, I consider lying again.
Flu.
Virus.
Something temporary and uncomplicated.
But another wave builds low in my abdomen, sharper this time, and I close my eyes briefly against it.
When I open them, he’s closer than before.
Not crowding me.
Just there, his hands lifting like he wants to touch me.
“It’s endometriosis,” I say finally. “Usually it’s controlled.”
Something shifts across his face—not pity, not alarm. Just immediate understanding that this is bigger than a bad day.
“And this happens often?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not like this. Stress can trigger flares sometimes.”
Silence settles between us for a moment.
Then he reaches for the door gently and pushes it shut behind him. “You should sit down.”
“I was sitting before you arrived.”
“Then let’s get you back to doing that.”
Despite everything, a tired laugh slips out of me. “You always this bossy when people are ill?”
“Only when they’re trying to pretend they aren’t.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, then shake my head slightly, too tired to argue the point properly, and turn back toward the couch. Each step back feels heavier than the last, but I manage it, lowering myself down carefully, adjusting the heating pad without thinking as I settle.
He watches all of it, hovering close, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to do something to help me.
Every movement, every adjustment is catalogued as he crouches beside the couch. “You’ve taken something to help?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Painkillers.”
“Which ones?”
I hesitate, just for a second. “Over the counter.”
“That’s not specific. Shouldn’t you have something stronger?”
“It’s enough,” I say, meeting his gaze again, a little more sharply this time.
For a moment, I think he might push further. Instead, he nods once, like he’s storing the information rather than accepting it. “And this is usual?” he asks.
I exhale slowly, leaning my head back against the couch, the warmth from the heating pad finally starting to seep through again. “No,” I admit.
Another pause. “Then why now?” he asks.
The question lands differently this time.
Not invasive.
Just direct.
I close my eyes briefly, weighing the effort of answering against the alternative of continuing to deflect.
“Hormone cycles can affect it and so can stress. I haven’t been sleeping all that well either,” I say finally, keeping it simple and vague.
The last thing I want to tell him is that my period probably triggered it.
Usually, my Mirena IUD makes it so I don’t get periods, but occasionally it happens.
His silence stretches just long enough that I know he isn’t satisfied with that. But he doesn’t push, and I’m grateful for that.
Instead, he moves past me toward the small kitchen without asking, his attention already shifting to something else, something practical, something he can control.
I watch him go, too tired to question it, too aware of the way the room feels different with him in it to ignore it entirely. He tosses his coat on the tiny kitchen table and pushes back the sleeves on his cashmere sweater, settling into my tiny kitchen as he boils some water.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
And yet—
He’s here.
And for reasons I don’t have the energy to examine right now, that matters more than it should.