I've gathered what I need: my tea blend, a change of clothes, the small jar of honey from my windowsill. The walk to the medical wing feels longer than it is, my body hyper-aware of movement, temperature, scent.
The suite is exactly as Ms. Hartley described.
Private. Calm. A room with soft lighting, a bed with clean white sheets, blackout curtains, a small bathroom. A mini fridge stocked with water and plain crackers. A basket of clean towels. Temperature control on the wall.
The door has a lock on the inside.
I set my bag on the chair and turn the lock.
Click.
The sound settles something in me.
Mine. My space. My choice.
I change into a comfortable cotton shirt, loose sleep shorts. I fill a glass with cold water and drink it standing by the window, looking out at the small courtyard beyond.
The warmth is building now. Waves rather than a steady burn, rising, cresting, falling back. Not painful. Just insistent.
I think of Mira's words:Your body knows what to do. You don't have to help it.
I don't have to fight this. I just have to let it be.
I press a cool cloth to my forehead and lie down on the bed, pillow tucked under my head. The sheets are soft, clean smelling. Safe.
The first real wave hits an hour later.
It starts low, a deep ache that spreads through my abdomen, down my thighs. My skin flushes hot. I curl on my side, breathing through it, counting.
One. Two. Three.
It crests, holds, then slowly recedes.
I exhale.
Okay. I can do this.
The waves come closer together as evening falls. Each one stronger, longer. I lose track of time, minutes blurring into each other. I drink water when I remember. Press my palms to the cool wall when the heat gets too intense. Pace when I can't lie still.
My scent intensifies.
I can smell it, honey and green things, warmed and thickened. It saturates the room, clings to my skin. I know it's drifting under the door, into the hallway beyond.
I know they can smell it.
And somewhere in the haze, I hear muffled voices.
Calder's low rumble, steady and controlled. "She's okay. We’ll know if she isn’t."
Tyler’s warmer tone. "We stay until she says otherwise."
Julian's precise murmur. "Agreed."
Something in my chest loosens.
They're not trying to get in. They're keeping others out.
This is what care looks like.
