Jem

SHE’S GONE. Indigo is gone. When I stir awake, last night flashes bright in my memory, but when I turn to the other side of my bed, it’s empty. She left. Brief panic floods my core as I blink past the sunlight filtering through the cracks in my curtains.

I want to believe the best — that she didn’t leave. That she’s still here somewhere around the apartment. But I don’t miss the note on my desk. Walking over, I reach for it.

Thank you, it says.

Her handwriting looks shaky. Misplaced. I know it’s irrational, and that she doesn’t owe me anything, but at the very least, I’d like to know that she got home safe.

Frustrated, I reach for my phone and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. Her words from last night replay in my mind. I don’t want to be an inconvenience. I swear you won’t see me again after tonight.

Something seems off, and I can’t seem to shake the feeling, even after I brush my teeth and take a shower. Sauntering to the kitchen, I find a disgruntled looking Eli, nursing what looks like one hell of a hangover.

He barely acknowledges me as I head to the fridge, and I turn to face him. His hair is messy as fuck, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I narrow my eyes at the array of clear-cut hickeys on his neck. “What happened to you?”

“Can’t remember,” he mutters, shovelling a spoon of cereal into his mouth.

I frown as I chug down a glass of juice. Eli’s not one for casual hook-ups. For a second, I’d managed to get Indigo out of my mind, but seeing Eli reminds me of how concerned she was about him last night. Pulling out my phone, I dial her number again. No luck—it goes straight to voicemail again.

I’m way out of my depth here. Do I check up on her? Give her space? Call again? Or leave her alone? It would be so much easier if she would just answer her damn phone, so I could gauge what to do from there. My gaze lands on my pot of purple flowers on the kitchen windowsill. They’re starting to wilt a little from the cold.

Fuck it.

I reach for my jacket.

*

SCARLETT ANSWERS THE DOOR. I think she would’ve left me knocking if I hadn’t been so persistent about it. Like Eli, she looks hungover as shit, and it looks like I woke her up, so she’s in a worse mood than usual.

Without the makeup and piercing, she looks surprisingly human. Except she’s glaring at me with the fire of a thousand suns.

“What?” she snaps.

Somehow, it’s colder in their apartment than it is outside. I ignore her scathing tone, frowning. “Why is it freezing in here?”

“Our heating and cooling sucks ass,” Scarlett mutters, crossing her arms over her thick bathrobe. “Emailed our landlord a hundred times, but I don’t think he gives a shit.” She lifts a perfectly manicured brow. “Why are you here?”

Right. I cut straight to the point. “Indigo. Where is she?”

Scarlett makes a face, like it’s obvious. “In her room.”

And sure enough, when I glance across the apartment, Indigo’s door is shut. On the other side of the apartment, there’s a haphazardly opened bottle of pills, some scattered on the kitchen counter. Scarlett follows my gaze, and then looks back over at me quickly.

“That’s not yours?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

And then I’m walking straight ahead, right to Indigo’s room. Scarlett is right behind me. I’m about to knock when Scarlett rolls her eyes and opens the door without hesitation.

Indie’s room is dark, but . . . she’s here—on her bed.

Curled into a foetal position.

My heart free falls.

Scarlett seems to realize something, because she crosses her arms and walks out of the room without a word. Frowning, I look back to Indigo, who doesn’t spare me a second glance. I can’t help but notice my ring on her hand that’s currently clutching a pillow so tightly to her chest that her knuckles are white.

I know she can hear me because she blinks.

“Indigo,” I say, “What’s wrong?”

*

Indie

WITH OSTEOCHONDROMA, my periods are irregular. Sometimes induced by stress. But there couldn’t have been worse timing for it than when I woke up this morning in Jem’s bed. The pain was so bad I almost doubled over.

Jem was still asleep next to me, his inked arm stretched out in my direction, almost as if he was reaching for me in his sleep. And with the shards of morning light settling on his face, he looked so peaceful.

He’d answered the phone last night. He was there for me in a way that made my heart squeeze tighter than ever before —in a way that hardly anyone ever was . . . And the last thing I wanted to do was wake him up.

I got out of bed as silently as possible, and every step to the bathroom was like a punch to the gut. I pull down Jem’s sweatpants to check and ­— I let out a breath of relief. I hadn’t started bleeding yet. Thankfully. If I messed his bed it would’ve been my thirteenth reason.

Padding back to his room, I wrote him a note, hunched over his desk as pain coursed up my abdomen. Then, I left, and by some universal grace, made it to my apartment. Hands shaking, I took pain meds and stumbled into the shower, the rapid heat of the water soothing the cramps. But only temporarily.

Now, on my bed, in the tempered darkness of my room with the curtains shut, the pain begins to edge its way back in. Almost an eight on a scale from one to ten. And there’s little I can do except curl up into myself for warmth.

Our apartment is cold—but not just any kind of cold. It’s the kind of cold that seeps to your bones. The building was cheaply designed with little insulation. Which would be fine if our central heating worked. But it doesn’t. And the landlord refuses to fix it.

Then, someone knocks on the door. Pauses for a while, then keeps knocking. It’s Jem. I know it is. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him. I know it’s rude, but I secretly hope he thinks no one’s in here and leaves.

But I’m out of luck, because Scarlett opens the door.

I should’ve left a longer note — should’ve answered my phone. But Kade has been calling nonstop, so I switched my phone off. And even if I wanted to answer Jem’s calls, I wasn’t physically capable of speaking more than two consecutive words without the cramps intensifying.

Suddenly, the door to my room swings open, and I freeze.

I don’t want him to see me like this. I can’t let him see me like this. Other girls can do practically anything while they’re on their period. Walk. Run. Swim. I can’t even form proper sentences.

“Indigo,” Jem murmurs.

I ignore him, focusing on my breathing.

“Indie,” he says, gently, “You’re hurting. Talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it better. Please.”

Despite everything, I melt. He’s tooth-achingly sweet.

“I have my period,” I choke out, my cheeks burning with humiliation, “And there’s nothing you can do. I swear. I’ve already taken three Advils. I’ll be okay. So will you go home? Just go home. Please.”

I can make out the sharp clench of his jaw, the dim light carving into his shadow. I turn away from him, tucking my knees in foetal position to ease away the pain. There’s a deep, bellowing sigh behind me, and suddenly, Jem is tugging the pillow out of my arms.

“What the—?” I really shouldn’t have yelped that out with such force because I swear my uterus yells shut the hell up! at my exclamation.

Jem ignores me.

He edges closer to me on his knees, and I feel the dip in my bed as he does. I turn to face him, my abdomen roaring in response. He’s so . . . big. Kneeling beside me, he blocks out my entire view.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” he intercepts, “not now.”

Then, he starts repositioning my limbs. His large, warm hands brand my arm and hip as he gently turns my entire body to face the wall. Back to foetal position.

Gingerly, as if I’d break if he did it with any more force, he slides a hand under my shoulder. I shiver at the touch. At my back, his body curls around mine, cocoon-like, his knees bending to fit into the crook of my bent legs, the top of my head under his chin.

He wraps a strong arm right across my torso.

Again, the sheer size of him baffles me. My bed is entirely too small for him, so we’re sandwiched together, pressed close up against each other. His hand sneaks under my t-shirt, covering most of my lower abdomen. His pinkie finger is barely inches away from the waistband of my sweatpants.

And just like that, the sweltering heat of his body starts to invade mine, easing my aches, soothing away the cramps.

Jem becomes my giant, breathing, hot water bottle.

His touch isn’t invasive or obscene in any way. It’s comforting and warm and welcome and makes me want to cry because it feels good. Almost too good.

I don’t want to seem weak. I don’t want to need him. But suddenly, it becomes too hard to fight the situation, and so, so easy to accept it.

“Better?” he breathes.

I nod against his chin, closing my eyes. “Mhm.”

He traces a circular shape on the skin on my stomach with the pad of his thumb, and I ease into the touch. “Good,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

I can feel him smile. “It’s all good, baby.”

My heart leaps in my chest. Damn him. Damn the way he makes me feel.

My uterus doesn’t agree.

“I don’t need you,” I whisper, although it’s more to convince myself than anything else.

He doesn’t even open his eyes, just holds me tighter. “Hmm.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Alright,” he hums. There’s a brief pause, then he says, “I’m going to fix the heating in your apartment tomorrow.”

My eyes widen. How did he know? “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t.”

I sigh, giving up. Any other day and the fact that he’s in my bed, pressed so close up against me with his hand splayed over my stomach would send my heart into a cardiac arrest, but now, with only pain at the forefront of my sensory system, it quells my body’s reaction to his touch.

His breathing is steady and even, and I find myself matching the slow rise and fall of his chest behind me. I feel myself drifting asleep, and I could swear there is a phantom touch on the top of my head—as though Jem has placed his lips there for the briefest moment.

And for the briefest moment, the pain dulls.

❖ ❖ ❖

a/n:

so call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to

P.S: WEʼRE HALFWAY!!!

until the next chapter

stay gold,
yuen