Chapter 34: A Quiet Kind of Care
Saturday evenings at home were usually quiet, and tonight was no exception. Oliver stepped inside, shoulders drooping as though the day had taken the last of him. He slipped out of his brown lace-up shoes at the entryway, tucking them neatly beside his black dress boots in the rack.
The familiar stillness of the house met him like a wall—no music, no footsteps, only the hum of appliances somewhere in the background.
He carried his black backpack to his room, slid it under the bed without thought, then collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The relief of the sheets against his skin was enough to pull him under almost instantly.
When he opened his eyes again, the window was dark and the clock read 7:30 PM. His body still felt heavy, but before he could drift back off, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He blinked, frowned, and reached for it.
Del.
That made him sit up. She never called. Most days now, their communication lives almost entirely on the whiteboard downstairs. For her to ring him directly, something had to be wrong.
He swiped to answer. “Del?”
Her voice came through softly. “Can you… come to my room?”
Oliver straightened. “What happened?”
“I wrote a message on the board,” she said. There was a pause, then a faint, tired exhale. “Forget it. I just… I need help.”
Guilt pricked at him. “Sorry. I haven’t gone down since I got home.”
“Never mind the whiteboard.” She sounded tired and weak. “Just come.”
Oliver didn’t ask again. He was already off the bed, tugging his shirt into place and heading for the hall, his worry quickening his steps. Then he stopped outside her door and knocked lightly.
“Come in,” Del said from the other side, her voice faint.
Oliver eased the door open and hesitated for a moment on the threshold. It was his first look inside her room. And the space felt entirely hers.
The walls were painted in muted tones that reminded him of spring light, and the furniture was ivory with curved edges, the kind chosen for comfort. By the window, a portion of the wall was claimed by drawings pinned in neat rows. Watercolors of flowers, pencil sketches of animals, and people.
Oliver stepped in quietly, taking it all in. He hadn’t expected this side of her. For someone who kept so much of herself closed off, her art was honest. Real. He thought to himself, She’s good. Really good.
Then his gaze shifted to the bed.
Del was curled up in the middle, half-buried in pastel pillows. Her knees were drawn close, her face pale, her arms folded tightly over her stomach. The sight made his chest tighten. He started toward her.
“Del,” he said carefully, “what’s wrong?”
Her gray eyes flicked to him. “Cramps. Bad ones.” She hesitated before adding, “And I ran out of pads.”
Oliver blinked, not prepared for the bluntness. His eyes caught the red patch on the sheets near her leg, and for a second, he froze. Then instinct took over. He moved closer, pulling up a pillow behind her back and gently lifting her so she could lean against it.
“Here. This should help you sit up a little.”
Del let him adjust her without protest. Her lips pressed together, a flicker of embarrassment crossed her face before it softened into relief.
“You need pads,” he said after a moment. “And pain relievers. Do you usually take anything specific?”
She gave the smallest nod. “Over-the-counter’s fine. I usually use a warm compress too, but mine’s broken.”
Oliver pushed a hand through his hair, already planning what to grab from the pharmacy. “Alright. I’ll get both. And something for the compress.”
Del looked at him. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said, giving the sheet another glance before looking back at her pale face. His smile was warm. “Don’t worry, little landlady. I got you.”
She sank further into the pillows. “Thanks.”
Oliver gave a small nod and slipped out. Then he returned a minute later from the bathroom with a hand towel and one of the small plastic bags they kept in the cupboard. He filled it with hot water, wrapped the towel around it, and carried it carefully back to her.
Del raised her brows when she saw it. “That’s… creative.”
“Improvised,” he said, handing it over. “Put this on your stomach. It’ll help.”
She looked at it, then at him, her hesitation obvious. Asking for help was one thing; accepting it was another. But the pain pressed her thin lips into a line, and finally, she took it from him and rested it against her abdomen.
A long breath escaped her, some of the tension easing from her face. “Okay. That’s better.”
Oliver pulled her blanket up a little higher around her shoulders, then stepped back. “Good. I’ll run out and grab what you need. Pads, painkillers, anything else?”
She shook her head. “That’s enough. Thanks.” Then she shifted against the pillows. “This is the first time I’ve let someone see me like this. It’s… weird.”
He leaned against the edge of her desk chair, not crowding her but not backing off either. “You’re allowed to be human, Del. You don’t have to keep it all together every second.”
Her eyes flicked up at him, faintly amused despite herself. “You sound like you say that to every woman you meet.”
Not really.” Oliver gave a small laugh. “Look, I know you don’t ask for help unless you have no other choice.”
Del didn’t argue. She closed her eyes briefly, pressing the makeshift compress harder against her abdomen. “You’re not what I expected when I said yes to you moving in.”
He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”
“Someone nosy. Or loud. Someone I’d regret letting in after a week.” She opened her eyes again. “Instead, I get… this.”
Oliver wasn’t sure what this meant, but he chose not to press. He just nodded once. “I’ll be back soon. Try to rest until then.”
She said, “okay”, and leaned back deeper into the pillows.
Oliver started toward the door but paused. His eyes flicked from the stain on the sheets to her small, pale frame. He felt a strange pull inside him. Is it a wonder? Protectiveness?
He’s not sure. .. yet