By the time I towel off and step back into the bedroom, my hair is damp, and my skin has that clean, over-washed tightness.
I slip into a pair of soft lounge pants and an old long-sleeved shirt, the kind with cuffs worn from years of use, and sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
That’s when my phone chimes.
The sound jolts me, a small spike of adrenaline. I reach for it, and the name on the screen makes my cheeks go warm.
Beau:I can call Simon. We’ll find a way to get you suppressants.
I stare at it for a while, thumb hovering. My brain runs through a hundred possible replies—some grateful, some sarcastic, some dangerously honest—but none feel safe.
I typethanks, delete it. Typedon’t bother, delete that too. In the end, I settle for a single thumbs-up emoji, quick and impersonal, before tossing the phone onto the pillow.
I head downstairs, partly to escape the heat that’s already creeping back into my body, partly because Pancake is probably pacing by his food dish.
Sure enough, the second my bare feet hit the kitchen floor, he’s there—tail high, little chirp of greeting like he’s been personally offended by my absence.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I mutter, scooping kibble into his bowl. He digs in without ceremony.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, watching the blue flame catch. My hands are still a little shaky, so I focus on the motions—tea bag in the mug, honey jar uncapped, spoon ready.
The scent of chamomile rises, familiar and grounding.
Upstairs again, I curl back into bed with the mug between my palms. The warmth bleeds into my fingers, and I try to tell myself I’m fine. That I can manage this.
Eventually, I give in and call Norah.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, you okay?”
I almost sayyes, but the truth catches in my throat. “I’ve been better.” Then I explain everything to her.
There’s a pause, then her voice softens. “Alright. I’ll swing by Miss Thea’s first, then I’ll be there in a few.”
I murmur a thank you and hang up. For a little while, I let myself forget the tight coil in my stomach and the heat at the base of my spine. I close my eyes. Sleep catches me without warning.
When I wake, it’s to the sound of my front door opening. Pancake meows in greeting, and then I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Wren?”
I blink against the dim light, my body heavy with that fever-like haze. “Up here,” I croak.
Norah appears in the doorway a moment later, holding a paper bag from the apothecary. Her gaze sweeps over me, and her smile tilts into concern.
“You look worse than you sounded on the phone.”
“This is bad,” I admit. My voice is thin, shaky.
She sets the bag down and sits beside me. “Then we’ll deal with it. I can take you to see Dr. Hale myself.”
I shake my head immediately. “No. No doctors. Not unless it’s… really bad.”
Her brow furrows, that tiny crease forming between her eyes the way it does when she’s trying not to lecture me. I know that look—half worry, half calculation—but she doesn’t push.
Instead, she reaches into the paper bag at her side, the soft rustle of tissue and cardboard filling the quiet.
When her hand comes out, she’s holding a small glass bottle, dark amber with a cork stopper, the label hand-lettered in Miss Thea’s elegant script. The faint scent of dried lavender and crushed mint drifts toward me.
In her other hand is a silver blister pack of pale-yellow pills, the foil catching the late afternoon light.
