She's bleeding.
You don't think of it as bleeding, really. Or she doesn't, not most months. It's her period. It comes three months, regular as clockwork, when she's on the pill, and it's every five to six weeks when she's not on it. It's just part of a biological system
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And then the first punch hit the wall, and his head jerked up.
Then the second, and the third, and the fourth -- enough, and rhythmic and consistent enough, to make it clear what he was hearing.
His brows have drawn together, and the book rests forgotten in front of him. He's trying to figure out if he should knock on the door, or just wait; either way, he's worried.
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Kate phases out shortly enough anyway, anger radiating off her in almost visible waves, and--
She wants to sit on the bed.
She doesn't want to be near him.
She says, shortly, "I have my period," after a pause, and then bends and starts to rummage through her duffel bag.
Looking for--
She doesn't even know what.
She needs to move her hands, and barely notices that they're moving through just as much as they're touching.
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(And his heart drops in his chest, and he only barely manages to keep that reaction off his face, because he didn't realize he was hoping for another miracle so soon until it was denied.
He should know better. For so many reasons.)
He turns enough to face her better, hands loose on his knees. It's a long moment in which he doesn't know what to say or do, what will help and what will make her angrier at the world, before he says softly, "It is one month, Katya."
They have time.
Plenty of couples have to keep trying.
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(She knows she should.)
"Just a few days mess, right? No big deal. We're fine."
She can't make her voice stop being clipped right now, and she gives up looking for the something in the bag and angrily tosses it across the room.
She wants to hit something.
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