Page 54 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Not really,” he deflects, but his eyes tell a different story, one he’s not quite ready to share. He hands me an antibiotic, the pill small and unassuming yet somehow significant. Then, with clinical efficiency, he takes my temperature, the beep of the thermometer breaking the brief silence between us.

Feeling oddly vulnerable under his care, I mutter, “I feel like a child.”

“One hundred and five point eight,” he announces, his brow furrowed. “That can’t be right.”

“I run hot,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood as I sip my coffee, letting the liquid warmth chase away the chill of discomfort.

“So you run hot and have this weird anemia,” he muses, that puzzled look returning. His next question nearly makes me spit out my coffee. “When was your last cycle?”

The coffee threat is real, and I choke in surprise. “Excuse me?” I rasp out, my face undoubtedly a portrait of shock and embarrassment.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a softness there as he carefully treads around a sensitive subject. “Your period. Humans have those, don’t they?”

“Yes, but—” I start, feeling the heat in my cheeks rise to match the fever I’m supposedly running.

“As your doctor,” he begins, then hesitates as if expecting my protest.

“Not my mate?” I tease him.

His smile, when it comes, is soft around the edges—a contrast to the clinical detachment of moments ago. “I’m glad to see you’re coming around to the idea, but as your doctor, it’s important.”

I let out a sigh, the weight of history and loss pressing down. “My last infusion was right before my mama died,” I say, the words laden with more than just physical fatigue. Grief.

“Five years,” he murmurs, the concern evident in the tightness of his jaw.

“Without her…” I trail off, the words tangled in a thicket of grief and stubborn independence. “I didn’t see the point. She was the one who…” The explanation sounds hollow, even to my own ears.

He watches me, a silent observer, then asks a question that sends ripples through the still waters of my life. “Do you have any spiritkin in your family line?”

The question hangs between us, dense with implications. I can see it in the way he looks at me with a slight hope that I’m more than just human, and a part of me hates that I’m about to disappoint him.

“Nope,” I state, my tone devoid of emotion. “You’re hardly the first to venture down that path, especially with LHS looming in the background like a medical boogeyman.”

“That was my initial suspicion,” Brody concedes, his gaze sharpening. Lycanthrope-hematolysis syndrome, otherwise knowns as LHS, a shadow that trails the bloodlines of spiritkin, is a genetic syndrome that turns their legacy into a curse. Those with spiritkin in their ancestry end up with weird little medical anomalies like LHS, where the descendent has a strange anemia. It’s a logical leap, given the erratic tides of my own health, syncing more with celestial cycles than any calendar could predict.

“And just for the record, I’m due for my period,” I add, tossing a playful wink into the mix so I don’t feel awkward. It doesn’t work. “Guess I’ll need a raid on my apartment soon.”

He waves off the concern with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “Ethan and Tyler are on it after their shift,” he assures me, bringing the conversation back my immediate needs.

“Well, damn,” I murmur, both impressed and frustrated at their efficiency.

“You, Ms. Ava, are under strict orders to rest today,” he declares, his tone brooking no argument yet laced with a warmth that belies his stern façade. “A gentle stroll every few hours, but don’t push it with the crutches. Your escapade likely strained more than just our patience. You bounced back quickly then, but now, your healing’s slowing for some reason.”

He’s probably right. Plus, I don’t hate the idea of him pampering me for the day. “Okay, but no promises if boredom strikes.”

His hum is skeptical, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “No arguments?”

“Even I recognize when I’m outmatched,” I concede, gesturing to the peace offering on the tray before me full of deliciousness. “Keep the food coming, and I’ll be the picture of obedience.”

The conversation takes a sudden turn, his cheeks dusting pink at the next suggestion. “Would you like to get washed up today?” he blurts out in one rush.

His blush is unexpectedly endearing. “Yes, that would be…nice,” I reply.

“We have everything you need. There’s a seat in the shower, and we can manage your leg without risking the stitches,” he explains, the practicality in his voice doing little to mask his underlying concern. “I also have a cover for your cast.”

“Maybe in a bit?” I hedge, buying time to wrap my head around the logistics and the implicit closeness it suggests.

He’d see me naked.

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