Page 159 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Pain?” he asks.

Not, “Are you okay?” Not “What’s wrong?” Not “You look terrible,” which would be true but rude.

Just, “Pain?”

I turn back to the dough. “Good morning to you too.”

“Halston.”

“I’m not accepting questions before caffeine.”

He disappears, and I hear the clicking of the coffee machine and the sound of the steam wand.

He comes back with a latte and sets it in front of me.

I pause.

“What is it?”

“Banana-vanilla latte. Oat milk with an extra shot. Less sweet than you make it, though.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why less sweet?”

“Because you drink the first third far too fast and then complain for hours that your teeth feel sticky.”

I stare at him.

He’s been here for just over a week, and he’s observed so much. My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with my endometriosis.

“I don’t complain.”

“You do.”

He’s quiet as I reach for the cup, because refusing the coffee on principle would make me the weaker party. The first sip is warm and familiar and almost right. Not as sweet as I would make it, but annoyingly good.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

He nods once, and then looks at my hand still pressed against my stomach.

I move it immediately.

“Flare?” he asks.

My whole body goes stiff.

It’s one thing for Marley to know. Marley has held my hair back during nausea and once threatened to fight my uterus in “a neutral location.” Oliver knows in the vague, practical way Oliver knows things—pain means fries or toast and silence, depending on the specific look on my face.

It’s another for Warren to stand in my kitchen and say flare like the word is allowed in his mouth.

“Did Marley tell you?” A shot of anger flashes through me.

He says nothing.

His brow lowers slightly, and I recognize the judgment.

“You’re sweating,” he says.

“Agatha is hot.”