Chapter 1 Pads and Permission

Tia's POV

The nylon bag bites into my fingers by the time I reach our door. Matte black. Sleek lock. A small silver "J" near the handle. From the outside, it looks like the entrance to a good life although inside, it never feels like one.

The lock beeps. Cool air slips over my skin as I step into the dim living room. City lights blink through tall windows. Grey sofa. Thick rug. Glass table. Everything his. The air even smells like his cologne.

I drop the nylon on the table. The plastic crinkles loudly. The pack of pads presses against it—bright, obvious. My stomach tightens, cramps curling low.

In the kitchen, white cabinets gleam. The fridge hums when I open it. Water. Juice. Containers I don't touch without asking. I shift one aside and find noodles tucked behind it. Mine.

The water boils. I cook quickly, watching steam rise, one hand resting against my abdomen. Something warm. Something simple.

I carry the bowl back, set it beside the nylon, and turn on the TV. Noise fills the room but nothing that quite interests me. I twirl noodles around my fork and lift it—

The lock beeps.

My hand stills. I lower the fork.

The door opens.

Jordan steps in like the space belongs to him. Two buttons open, sleeves rolled. His cologne reaches me first. He shuts the door and scans the space once. His gaze lands on the table. The nylon. The pads.

My chest tightens.

"Welcome home, love," I say.

No answer. Keys and phone hit the console. Jacket over the sofa. His eyes stay on the bag.

"What's that?"

"Pharmacy," I say, fingers curling into the cushion. "I bought something I needed."

He lifts the nylon, peels it open. The pads sit there. His jaw tightens.

"You went to the pharmacy. With what money, Tia?"

"I used your card. The one in the drawer. I didn't have cash and my period came—I couldn't wait."

"You used my card," he repeats, "without asking me."

"I tried to call. My line is still barred—you haven’t—"

"So it's my fault."

"No," I say quickly. "I'm just explaining. I just needed—"

He taps his phone, turns the screen to me.

"Alert. Pharmacy. Amount."

The amount is small but throat tightens anyway.

"You think I don't see what leaves my account?"

"It's not like I bought perfume," I say, quieter. "It's pads."

"Pads."

He sets the phone down. "You really don't respect me."

"I do. I'm just tired of asking for everything. Tissue. Soap. Data. I thought—"

"You thought."

He moves closer. "That's all you do. You stay at home and do nothing."

"I cleaned," I say. "I—"

"You don't have a job." His hand cuts me off. "You eat my food, use my light, then take my card." He steps closer. "It's almost like you're stealing."

My stomach drops.

"I wasn't stealing. I was going to tell you."

"After you already did it." His eyes lock onto mine. "That's not respect, Tia."

My noodles sit untouched, cooling slowly.

"It wasn't that much," I say, smaller. "It's a small thing."

His expression hardens. "You are in my house," he says softly, "eating my food."

His hand snaps out. The bowl flies, crashes into the rug. Broth splashes. Noodles scatter.

I flinch.

"That is what happens when you don't take responsibility."

"I'll clean it," I say quickly, pushing up. "I'm sorry—"

His fingers clamp around my arm. Pain shoots up as he yanks me closer.

"Every time," he says, too close, "you have an excuse. 'I was bleeding.' 'I was hungry.'" His grip tightens. "You can't just say, 'I was wrong.'"

"I'm saying it now," I breathe. "I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please."

"You're still making it about you. Your hunger. Your feelings. What about my day?"

"I know you work hard," I say. "I'm grateful. I'm not trying to make you the bad guy."

"Then stop painting me like one. Stop going to Hannah's and crying."

"I don't cry about you to Hannah," I say quickly. "I just—"

The slap lands.

My head jerks sideways. Heat floods my cheek. For a second, the room tilts. I taste metal. I stumble back onto the sofa.

"You make me this person," he says.

Tears spill but I wipe them quickly. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "Please—"

He leans in. For a second, I think it's over. Then the back of his hand hits under my eye. Pain explodes. My head knocks the sofa. I curl inward, one arm over my head.

"Jordan, please."

"Shut up." Flat. Final. He shoves me. I slide into the armrest.

"I come home hoping for peace and you meet me with disrespect," he says. "Next time you want to spend my money, ask first. I'm not charity."

He walks away. The bathroom door shuts. The shower starts, loud and steady.

The TV keeps laughing. I stay still, curled into the sofa, my pulse loud in my ears.

Slowly, I sit up. My left eye throbs when I touch it. I wince. The noodles sit on the rug, soaking in. The smell turns my stomach.

I kneel and pick up the noodles bit by bit, dropping them into the nylon. My stomach growls. I press a rag into the stain. Again. Again. It fades, but doesn't disappear.

The shower stops. A door clicks. Silence.

I sit back, staring at the damp patch. Hannah's face comes to mind. Her kitchen. Her fridge. The way she'll look at me.

I should go to bed. Pretend. Instead, I stay there, fingers resting on the stain.

Tomorrow. I'll go to Hannah's. I'll make it look like a casual visit and use the chance to get some bread. That should feel me up for the morning. 

I tie the nylon and drop it in the bin. At the counter, I lean forward, forcing my now swelling eyes to close. Breakfast at Hannah’s. A sanctuary even if for just a few hours.