Six Things Before Breakfast

8

There's only one brand of almond milk that Becks likes. The convenience store near the apartment doesn't run out of them.

The bells jingle loudly as Sanders enters, shoving his hands inside his pockets and shivering from the cool air of the AC—the November air outside doesn't help much, either. The cashier gives him a two-finger salute and Sanders does the same back to him. He's come to find out that his name is Terry. Terry is nice.

Sanders heads to the chilled section and eyes the display cooler. He does this every morning, trying to see if he'd want to grab anything else aside from Becks's milk. He doesn't.

Terry rings up the milk on the counter while Sanders rubs his hands together, blowing into them. Terry doesn't bother with change and goes back to his phone after Sanders pays for it. The bells jingle again as he leaves, and Sanders pulls his hood up and runs back home.

There's a note sitting on the kitchen counter with angry, bold letter. Sanders takes off his shoes, and sets the milk down. There's milk in the fridge for cal, i saw them at the grocery store yesterday!!! No need for your convenience store trips!! :D

Sanders bites his tongue. He crumples up the note and stalks to the refrigerator.

Sure enough, the brand Becks likes, the almond milk—there are about ten bottles of them, sitting beside each other.

Sanders has never seen this brand at the fucking grocery store. That's why he makes a stop during his runs.

He closes the refrigerator with more force than necessary and grabs the almond milk he bought, heading straight for Becks's room. She's lying face down on her pillow, but there's something wrong. Her legs are folded under her chest, and she's exhaling heavily, groaning softly in pain.

It's Cramps Day. Sanders walks closer to her bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, abandoning the milk on her bedside table. He runs a hand down her back. "Babe. Babe, it hurts?"

It's not every month. Most of the time, it doesn't even hurt. Becks says it's a hassle, and it feels annoying inside her training shorts, and she gets moodier than usual, but it doesn't hurt.

Sometimes, it does.

"Being a girl fucking sucks," she says, groaning again. She's clutching her torso, squeezing her eyes shut.

Sanders's lips curl up. "Being my girl wouldn't."

"No, it still would," she says irritably, twisting her head to glare at him. "I'd still be a girl, wouldn't I? Dumbass."

Sanders laughs. He pats her butt comfortingly. "There, there. You want me to get your pills?"

"Yeah. Water, too."

Sanders does as she says. Becks sits up and gulps down the pill, face scrunching in disgust. "I feel terrible," she croaks out, running one hand through her messy hair.

"Stay here," Sanders says. "Don't go to school. You look pale."

"No, I need to train, Coach will kill me, he's going to check my weight," she mutters, groaning. She flops back on her pillows. "I can't drink milk today, it's too..." she pauses, scowls, and makes a gagging sound.

"How'd your face do, like, three things at once?"

"Yours can do five. Don't test me. I've seen it happen."

Sanders clears his throat, pouts, and snatches the milk off the table. "No milk for you, then. Are you sure you can go to school? Won't you pass out or some shit? I can't carry you, Becks, you know that."

"I'm not going to pass out," she grumbles. "Just come pick me up after training, I'm going to need food. Lots of it."

Right. Right, there should be no problem with that.