Page 95 of The Wild Card

The results are overwhelming. Heat, yes, I’ve got that. Hydration. Gentle movement, though she doesn’t look like she’s moving anywhere. Magnesium. Dark chocolate—already on it. Comfort and emotional support.

I stare at that last one.

Comfort and emotional support.

I stare at those words.

I’ve provided tactical support in active shooter situations. I’ve provided logistical support for multi-agency operations. I’ve provided backup for Foster when he decided to chase a suspect through a shopping mall during the Christmas rush.

But comfort and emotional support? Not in my skill set.

I consider texting Foster. He grew up with sisters. He might know what to do. But then I imagine the conversation—hey, Emmie has her period and I don’t know how to help—and I can already hear his laughter from here. He’d never let me live it down.

I pull up Google again.

How to comfort someone on their period.

The results are both helpful and horrifying. Apparently, I should “validate her feelings” and “offer physical affection without expecting anything in return” and “just listen without trying to fix it.”

Don’t try to fix it? That goes against every instinct I have. What the hell would be the point.

The whole point is that I do want to fix it.

I scroll further. One article suggests “simply being present and available.” Another recommends “gentle touch, like rubbing her back or playing with her hair.”

I’ve never played with anyone’s hair in my entire life.

Another article says “ask her what she needs instead of assuming.”

Okay maybe that one I can do. I’m good at gathering intel.

The kettle whistles. I pour the tea, grab the chocolate from the drawer, and then stand awkwardly at the foot of her bed while she watches me with increasingly wide eyes.

“Can I…?” I gesture vaguely at the empty space beside her.

“You want to get in bed with me?”

“You said it helps to not be alone.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually—” She stops. Swallows. “Yeah. Okay. You can—yes.”

I toe off my shoes. Hesitate for a second, then I climb onto the bed and sit against the headboard, stiff as a board, unsure what to do with my limbs.

Emmie is staring at me like I’ve just performed a magic trick.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just—” She shakes her head. “Thank you. For the tea. And the heating pad. And the…” She gestures at me, at the bed, at the situation. “This.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Yeah, but most guys would just… I don’t know. Leave me alone. Tell me to take a Midol and tough it out.”

“That’s stupid. You’re clearly uncomfortable.”

“It’s just cramps, Crew. It’s not like I’m dying.”

“You’re hurting,” I say. “That matters.”