Chapter 177
Nora's POV
I locked myself in the bathroom for a few minutes, getting situated. When I opened the door again, Julian was waiting just outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
The cramping had intensified, that deep, pulling ache that made me want to curl into a ball. I bent slightly, one hand pressed to my lower abdomen as I shuffled toward the sink to rinse my hands.
"Come on." Julian's voice came from behind me, firm but gentle.
Before I could argue, he scooped me up. I made a weak sound of protest as he carried me toward the bedroom.
"Wait, I need to wash—"
"I'll take care of it."
"No, you don't have to—"
He raised an eyebrow, cutting off my objection with a look that said arguing was pointless. "Nora. I'm going to wash your clothes. It's not up for debate."
I opened my mouth, closed it again. The absurdity of protesting while literally being carried to bed struck me suddenly, and I gave up. "Fine. You win."
He set me down carefully on the bed, pulling the covers up over me with meticulous attention. "Get comfortable. I'll be back in a minute."
True to his word, he returned to the bathroom. I heard the water running, the soft sounds of him handling fabric.
After washing the clothes, he went into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged carrying a bowl. Steam rose from it, carrying a sweet, warm scent.
"Oatmeal porridge," he said, settling onto the edge of the bed beside me.
He scooped up a spoonful, blowing on it gently before holding it to my lips. "Open."
"I'm not an invalid," I muttered, but I opened my mouth anyway.
The porridge was warm and sweet, the flavor just right, leaving a pleasant heat in my throat. After two spoonfuls, I reached for the bowl. "I can do it myself."
He handed it over without argument, then stood. "I'm going to hang up your clothes. Call if you need anything."
By the time he came back, I'd finished the entire bowl. He took it from me, setting it on the nightstand, then moved to the other side of the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better." It was true. The warmth of the food had eased some of the cramping, and the earlier emotional exhaustion was starting to pull me under. "A little better."
"This period came early," I said.
He observed carefully, his tone cautious. "How early?"
"Almost a week."
A pause. Then, quietly: "Was it because... last night, did we—"
I couldn't help myself. I let my expression go serious, even accusatory. "I told you to stop. You kept going."
His face went through a series of changes—surprise, guilt. "Nora, I'm sorry. I should have been more careful. I'll control myself better in the future—"
I burst out laughing.
His eyes narrowed. "You're messing with me."
"Maybe a little." I grinned at him, unable to keep up the act. "Though technically, you could have affected my cycle. Stress, hormonal changes from... you know. Physical activity."
"So it is my fault."
"I'm saying it's possible." I bit my lip, trying not to smile. "You were pretty intense."
He sighed, but there was amusement lurking in his expression now. "Alright. I accept full responsibility for your early period."
"Good." I settled back against the pillows, suddenly bone-tired. "You should feel guilty."
"Oh, I do." He dimmed the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp. "Absolutely devastated."
When he stretched out beside me, I automatically shifted closer. The cramping started again, radiating through my lower back and down my legs. I couldn't stop the small sound that escaped me.
His hand slipped under my sleep shirt, warm palm pressing against the small of my back. His fingers found the knots of tension there, working them with steady, practiced pressure.
"How do you know how to do this?" I asked, my voice already going drowsy.
"Looked it up." His thumb pressed into a particularly tight spot, and I groaned. "Read that period cramps often cause lower back pain. Seemed like something I should know."
I wanted to say something witty, something to deflect from how much that simple statement affected me. But I was too comfortable, too relieved, to manage anything beyond: "You're getting 101 points. Extra one for being smug about it."
His quiet laugh vibrated through his chest. "I'll take it."
I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of him—soap and something woodsy that might have been his shampoo. This close, I could feel his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath my cheek.
"You know," he said after a moment, "hormonal fluctuations before menstruation can cause emotional sensitivity. Irritability, anxiety, self-doubt." His voice was carefully neutral. "That breakdown earlier—a lot of it was probably your body chemistry talking."
I went still.
"I'm not saying your feelings weren't real," he continued quickly. "But the intensity of them, the way everything felt insurmountable... that wasn't all you. It was hormones amplifying existing anxieties."
He was giving me an out. A scientific explanation to soften the rawness of what I'd exposed earlier.
"So you're saying I was being crazy," I said, deliberately light.
"I'm saying your brain was working against you." His hand kept moving on my back, soothing circles. "And I should have realized it sooner. Should have been more patient."
I tilted my head to look at him. In the dim light, his features were softer, less severe. "You were patient. I was the one who lost it."
"We both could have handled it better." He kissed my forehead. "But we figured it out. That's what matters."
The cramping was subsiding under his ministrations, warmth spreading through my muscles as the tension released. I felt myself starting to drift, that pleasant heaviness that comes just before sleep.
"Julian?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For everything today."
His arms tightened around me fractionally. "Always."
I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the comfort of his presence. Our hearts beat in tandem—his steady rhythm grounding mine, pulling me down into sleep.