“Strip.”
I blink at him.
He groans. “You have blood on your shorts, and you’re not exactly going to get in the bath with clothes on. So, strip.”
“Can you give me some privacy?”
He pouts, but then he does as I ask, leaving the room quietly.
I step out of my ruined shorts and pull my top over my head, releasing my breasts, which—now that I think about it—are tender and sore.
Once the water is the right temperature and filled with bubbles, I sink into it. Thankfully, this bath is larger than average, so I don’t feel quite so huge. Baths and being plus-sized aren’t really that relaxing. All they do is make you aware of how much your body squishes and takes up space. But right now, it’s doing its job. The warmth soothes my aching muscles and lessens the cramping in my uterus.
The door opens, and I shriek, covering my boobs with my arms.
Eli strolls in, frowning at the way my hands are splayed over my breasts. “It’s criminal to cover a body like yours, Angel.”
I glare at him. “What are you doing in here?”
He holds up a glass of water and two pills. “Brought you some painkillers.”
Damn him.
I take the glass with one hand, droplets sliding down the surface and splashing onto the floor, while I manoeuvre thebubbles to cover myself so Eli can place the medication in my other hand.
He leaves again, and my shoulders drop as the tension drains from my body.
I rest my head against the tub, letting my eyes drift closed while I soak.
When my fingers and toes turn pruney, I know it’s time to get out.
I stand, ready to step out, when I freeze. I don’t have anything to wear.
“Eli,” I call tentatively.
The door swings open again—which I should have expected. I spin, facing away from him, then twist my head back. His eyes are on my ass.
“Eli,” I hiss, forcing his gaze up to meet mine.
“Angel?”
“I need clothes. And pads. Or tampons.”
“But you use a cup,” he says, brow furrowing.
“How do you—” I cut myself off, not wanting to know the answer. “That’s not very helpful right now when I’m at your house.”
“Ourhouse,” he gripes. He shakes his head, then opens the cupboard under the sink. Pulling something out, he holds it up triumphantly.
My jaw drops.
He’s holding—surely he’s not—but he is. He’s holding my period cup in his bare hand.
“Give me that!” I scream, mortification heating my cheeks as I spin to face him, no longer caring that I’m naked.
He drops it into my palm like it’s no big deal. “I sterilised it for you, don’t worry.”
Without a word, he disappears, then returns a moment later with joggers and my Oodie.