It starts with a text:

Can you grab me some stuff?

The fuck does that mean?

Like… a heating pad and snacks?

Jesus Christ. Yeah, fine.

But of course Richie cannot follow a simple task, God bless him.

What size is your pussy?

WHAT.

I’m at Walgreens. There’s like 9 fuckin sizes. S/M/L/what-the-fuck. Just tell me what to get before I fight a cardboard display.

An hour later, her front door swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Richie storms in, weighed down with bags, muttering to himself.

“Unbelievable. I walk into Walgreens, right? Ask some poor kid where the heating pads are. He looks at me like I got two fuckin’ heads. Starts stammering, turns red—like I just asked him how babies are made. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, thinking, what the fuck is so complicated about a heating pad?”

She blinks as he starts unloading. A heating pad, two kinds of painkillers, three different bags of chips, chocolate, a six-pack of Gatorade, and—

“…Tampons?” She raised a brow. “Richie, I don’t even use tampons.”

“Well, I don’t fuckin’ know that!” he snaps. “I panicked! What if you needed them? What if it was one of those specific period situations? What was I gonna do? Leave without ‘em and let you bleed out?”

She bites back a laugh. “That’s… not how that works.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, well, whatever. Point is, I handled it.” He shoves the bags toward her. “There. Now you can sit on your ass and stop looking like you’re two seconds from punching me in the throat.”

She stared at the haul, then back at him. “Thank…”

Her tone is confused and cut off when he grabs a ball of yarn (they sale that at Walgreens?) vaguely throwing towards her cat.

“I got something for your other pussy.”

He snatches some chips and sits on the couch.

Jesus Christ, this was the man she was dating