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You walk side by side with Michael down the old creaky boards of the boardwalk. The sun hangs ahead shining softly, the breeze just right, your heart full. It was the perfect date, a date you didn’t want to end.
Michael was telling you a story about a prank he and his brothers played on strangers, but you can’t seem to focus on any of his words, and every laugh is forced.
It’s not that you didn’t want to listen to what your sure is a hilarious story, but it just feels like someone is stabbing your uterus. The pain so intense it was making it hard to focus, hard to walk even.
You knew you’d be on your period, that’s no surprise. You were fine earlier when you played in the arcade and rode the Ferris wheel. When all of the sudden a sharp pain hits your abdomen. You can no longer pretend you’re not in pain.
“Hey Michael,” you say, voice strained.
“Yes?” He glances at you, seeing your expression, his face scrunches with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not feeling too well,” you tell him voice getting weaker by the second.
“Do you need me to take you home?” He asks.
“Yes please. I’m so sorry,” you say, feeling every ounce of it.
You felt so bad for ending the date. It was perfect. The next thing on the list was dinner. Spend the rest of the night at a diner sharing a milkshake and then maybe just maybe end the night with a kiss.
But all of that wasn't going to happen because your body thought now was a good time to kill you from the inside.
“No need to apologize. I’ll take you home,” he coos, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he walks you toward his car.
The ride home felt like forever as you curl into a ball in the passenger seat. You felt too hot so he turns the air on, but now you feel too cold. Michael kept glancing over at you with concern.
Embarrassment flushes over you because you didn’t want him to see you like this. With your face slick with sweat, body slouched together. Well not this early but you can’t mask it anymore. Now that you acknowledged the cramps, they came full swing.
Nausea paints tiny dots in your vision.
You don’t even give him a proper goodbye when he pulls up to your house. You mutter something that you hope sounds like goodbye and stumble to your front door.
You barely make it to your room, stumbling in before collapsing onto the bed.
For the next few hours you toss and turn in your bed, searching for the position that will ease the pain. You took pain killers but they weren’t working. All you could do is lay there, silently crying until you fell asleep.
You wake up to the sound of soft pounding on the door. When you flutter your eyes open, the sun has faded and moonlight cascades into your bedroom floor.
Knock! Knock!
“Coming,” You lazily say. It wasn’t loud enough for them to hear but it took all your strength to say.
You drag your feet through the dark hallway, traversing your house through memory rather than sight.
You pull your front door open, using it as an anchor. The figure waiting on the other side shakes the air in your lungs.
“Michael? What are you doing here?” Your words a breathy whisper.
He stands in front of you, he’s got a basket in his hands and a boyish grin across his face.
“I came to check up on you. I brought some stuff that might help,” he says, his tone soft like a blanket.
Your eyes flick down to the basket. It has a blanket, a bear, some chocolates, tea, and a heating pad.
How did he know?
“I have sisters,” he says as if he read your mind.
“Oh,” you can only say, because this was the sweetest thing a guy has ever done for you.
All this time you were worried he’d never want to see you again after you bailed on him.
“Come in,” you walk backwards, inviting him in.
You rush to turn on a light and smooth the couch. You weren’t expecting company so your living room was a tad messy.
“Sorry for the mess,” you apologize, self conscious about the way the house looks. Especially compared to his. You also slyly wipe the corners of your mouth because you knew you drooled in your sleep.
“No, it’s okay. I like it. It’s homey,” he reassures you.
He places the basket on the coffee table. You stand miles apart awkwardly. You never had a boy in your house before. Do you turn the tv on? Give him a glass of water?
“Come lay down,” Michael finally says.
“Huh?”
“Let me take care of you,” he clarifies.
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine,” you tell him. But you weren’t fine.
"Please," he urges, his expression a mix of genuine concern and sweetness that makes your stomach flutter even through the pain.
Your body sags, admitting defeat. The throbbing ache in your lower abdomen wasn't going away, even after all the remedies you've tried, and here he is, standing there looking like an angel sent from above to hopefully alleviate the pain.
So you let Michael gently drag you to the couch, laying you softly on the cushions.
He kneels beside the couch.
“It’s not much but I’ll do the best I can,” he says, his voice soothing.
Michael takes the blanket out the basket first, laying it down on you like a mother would. The fabric was incredibly soft and smelt just like him. Michael then goes into your kitchen to make tea. When he comes back, the tea is nice and warm. Not too hot nor too cold.
You feel relaxed immediately at the first sip. You feel the heat of Michael’s eyes as he watches you tenderly. You don’t dare to look at him.
This was already too much on your heart. You had no idea how you got this lucky but you were going to stay this lucky as long as you can help it.
"Would it be okay if I gave you a massage?" he whispers, his eyes searching yours.
The idea plays in your head for a moment. Before you finally gain the courage to respond.
"Please," you breathe.
No one has ever given you a massage before so nerves tickle your stomach lining.
He moves with gentle intention, shifting to the edge of the couch to reach you easily.
"Is it okay if I touch you under your shirt?" Michael asks, not wanting to go outside your boundaries.
"Yes," you respond way too quickly.
He softly chuckles at your eagerness. He digs his hands under the blanket. His face relaxes as he slides his large, warm hands beneath your shirt. Your breath hitches the moment his palms make contact with your skin. He moves his hands in slow circular motions as his fingertips apply the right amount of pressure.
A wave of relief washes over you.
As he works, he begins to hum melodically, it's low and pretty. You let out a long shaky sigh as your eyes flutter shut. The outside world ceases to exist. Leaving only his skillful hands, the soft scent of his cologne, and the comforting cadence of his wordless song.
You sit up which causes him to stop singing.
"Are you okay?" He asks, his eyes searching for uncertainty on your face.
All you can do is look at his lips. In the comfortable haze of sleepiness, your fingers brush the nape of his neck to pull him closer.
Had you been completely sound of mind, you wouldn't have done this but you kiss him. It's soft and tastes of secrets and longing. It's how you tell him thank you. By a gentle press of the lips. When he pulls back, he lingers for a second, then presses a tender kiss to your cheek.
"Just relax," he softly chuckles, red blossoming on his cheeks.
You lie back down, and he continues massaging. Darkness pulls at the backs of your eyes, heavy and warm. Like that, the last thing you feel is the steady rhythm of his hands soothing the ache in your stomach before you fall into a peaceful slumber.
You wake up slowly, the light of the morning filters through your bedroom curtains like a natural alarm. You aren't on the couch anymore. You are securely tucked in your bed.
You'd think you dreamt it all if it wasn't for your sheets smelling faintly of him. When you sit up and pull the blankets off, you see the soothing heating pad he left you.
Tears play at the base of your eyes, threatening to fall because he is beyond sweet, and maybe it was your hormones that makes you sensitive but your heart swells.
You look to your right, and as if he couldn't get any better he left pain meds, a cup of water, and a note which reads:
Whenever you need me, I'll be there :)
-MJJ