Mikasa
Few know this secret about Levi Ackerman, but he cries regularly. To be fair, the word "cry" might be a stretch, but every two months, my uncle shuffles down the stairs, clutching the side of his head—afflicted by yet another migraine. And every two months, no matter what tough exterior he plasters over those grimaces, tears always manage to leak from the corner of his eyes, whether Levi likes it or not.
Migraines run through the Ackerman side of our family. My dad had them, as did Levi's mother. Levi and I take preventative medication once daily, which dampens the severity of oncoming episodes. "Atenolol Time" was what we called it—every night at 10:30PM, Eastern Standard Time. We both keep a journal of our triggers. For me, the throbbing pain in my right temple tends to accompany the ebb and flow of my menstrual cycle. Strong odors might kick off an episode as well. Levi steers clear of MSG, and he also goes easy on the alcohol, limiting himself to only one drink per sitting.
A pet peeve that we share: when people confuse migraines with "just another pesky headache." Before he secured tenure as a professor, Levi worked a number of nine-to-five jobs, and he's had ample experience dealing with bosses who just don't get it.
"Listen, let me paint a fucking picture for you," he'd say, putting his phone on speaker but keeping the volume low. "Let's pretend that you decided to go overboard on the Ben and Jerry's. You bring home a big-ass tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, you wolf that shit down, and next thing you know, you get the world's worst brain freeze. Only this brain freeze lasts for days. Oh, and as a cherry on top, someone decided to take a fucking ski pole and torpedo it into your skull. And if that isn't lovely enough, every time you hear a loud noise or see a bright light, it's kinda like that person decided to grab that ski pole and jiggle it around your brain for shits and giggles. So, to answer your question: no, I don't plan on coming into work any time soon."
Levi would never admit this, but we make a great team when it comes to rustling up proactive home remedies. For us, our migraines last anywhere from four hours to three days. About an hour before the pain takes hold, we get visual auras. Our sight gets distorted, and it's like we're seeing through trick mirrors. Close objects seem far, and far objects seem close. Occasionally, we spot flashes of light. But the moment these auras strike, Levi and I take some Advil, throw back a cup of coffee, and lock ourselves in a dark room. If we're lucky, the oncoming episode passes swiftly.
But frankly, that's wishful thinking. Most of the time, we clear our schedules and cancel the oncoming week's appointments. We hunker down in our foxholes. And we squeeze our eyes shut, waiting out the storm.
"Can I have the rest of this?" I call into the living room. Eren takes too long to answer, so I claim the rest of the coffee pot for myself.
"You look off," he remarks, glancing up from his textbook when I shuffle past, sipping black coffee from a mug. It's 3PM. The living room is filled with glaring sunlight, and I feel like a vampire, retreating into the shadows.
"I'm gonna be MIA for a bit," I say. "Hopefully, just for a few hours. But if not, I'll see you in a couple of days."
"Are you going on an… impromptu road trip?" Eren asks, closing his book and leaning forward in his seat. "Thanks for the invite, by the way."
"No, I'm gonna go hole up in my room."
"Are you okay?"
"Migraines."
He follows me to my bedroom. I've drawn the curtains, and I've put a sleeping mask next to my pillow. My nightstand is equipped with Advil and a Nalgene water bottle. There's a wastebasket next to my mattress, just in case nausea gets the better of me. "Do you need anything?" he asks, taking my mug after I chug down the rest of the cold coffee.
I crawl into bed, burrowing into my comforter and blankets. "I think I'm all set—"
My phone suddenly pings.
"Hey, actually," I say, unplugging it from its charger and handing it to him. "Do you wanna answer all my text messages for me? I'm trying to avoid light."
He already knows my phone lock code—it's 0-2-1-0, my birthday. "So, it's actually from Gabi," he tells me. "Reiner's kid cousin, right? She says, 'That hurt like a bitch. L-M-F-A-O.' What should I say back?"
"Tell her I'll call her later," I mumble quickly.
"Is she all good? From a third-person perspective, this is kinda a red flag—"
"She had sex for the first time with her boyfriend. Keep that on the DL, by the way. If you tell Reiner, you're toast."
Ping. Another text.
"Okay, so she followed up," Eren announces. "And she says, 'But Falco was really good. Heart eyes emoji.' Wait, question." He looks up, tilting his head to the side. "What's Falco's last name?"
"Grice. Why?"
"Oh, shit. What a crazy coincidence because I know him and his brother Colt!" he exclaims. "Damn, go Falco. He's all grown up!"
"Can you be a little quieter?" I grumble, rolling away from him and covering my ears with my blanket. Right on schedule, the tension in my head is starting to take hold, and in thirty minutes, this sore spot is going to become a pulsating cannonball.
"Sorry," Eren whispers sheepishly.
"How do you know the Grice brothers?"
"Well, Colt's been my dad's caretaker for several years, and Falco tagged along this past summer because he was chilling at Colt's apartment before college started. My mom loves that kid. Sometimes, I wonder if she wishes he were her own son, and I totally get it, like he's so sweet. I honestly feel like I atone for all my past sins just by existing within a five-foot radius of him. You know, actually, I talked to him about his past girl troubles over the summer, though I probably shouldn't tell you anything because I kinda swore a blood-oath to keep all his Tinder disasters a secret, but yeah, damn. Gabi's a lucky girl."
Journalism has taught me how to hang onto passing thoughts, to not let those casual mentions sail by. Zero in on them, latch onto them, put them front-and-center under the limelight. "Why does your dad need a caretaker?" I ask, at point-blank.
Eren pauses for a moment, scrambling for the words before answering, "Uh, yeah. You know, typical old age stuff."
"I thought he was only in his fifties?"
"Well, he's kinda… come down with an illness. Like, I mean, he's fine. But it's nice to have someone to help out," Eren says breezily. He changes the topic, "So what else should I tell Gabi? 'You go, girl?' I dunno, is that how females congratulate each other after getting laid?"
The journalistic instincts I've developed over the years are screaming at me to continue with my line of questioning, to press him harder, to figure out, once and for all, why Eren does a heel-turn when we approach matters regarding his family. When Zeke and his father enter the picture, his manner of storytelling, normally straightforward and unabashedly candid, starts meandering with twists and turns, bogged down by empty, vague statements that buy him just enough time to think of a bullshit tangent.
But I let him off the hook. If anything, I build him an exit ramp with my own two hands. "Heart-react her last message about Falco, and tell her that I'm excited to call her," I say, covering my eyes with a pillow.
Beside me, Eren relaxes—but I make a mental note to bring it up again later.
As I puke into the toilet, Eren wriggles the red scrunchie off of my wrist, and he twists my hair into a bun. It's tight enough to catch every last strand, but not too tight as to further provoke my migraine. "Here," he says, handing me a glass of water. "Take it easy. Small sips."
I follow his advice. "Can you turn off the bathroom light please? It's killing me." I grip the edges of the toilet seat when another wave of nausea rises up. But with another sip of water, it settles down.
"I wish I knew how I could help," Eren sighs as I flush the toilet. "But we hardly get migraine patients in the ER. If anything, that's the worst place for you guys with all the light and noise and commotion, yeah?"
I take his arm, closing my eyes, and he guides me across the living room, back to my own bed. "What would you do if someone like me did come into the ER, though?" I ask, sliding back under my covers. My pillow feels hard as a rock right now. "Ugh, Eren. This sucks so much. Can you close the door? Even the hallway light is just… awful."
"You bet," he says, closing the door with his foot. And thankfully, it's dark again. He sits on the edge of my bed and reaches out a hand to rub my shoulder. "Well, if a patient shows up with a migraine or headache, then strokes or brain bleeds are the first thing we worry about. But I'm pretty sure that's not you. In your case, I'd get a set of vitals, then get an IV in your arm and give you a bolus of saline. Probably a painkiller or two, like ketorolac, maybe? Then let you chill out for a bit. Oh, and… actually, nah. Never mind."
My eyes are closed, but I can imagine him grinning. "Just say it," I reply, smiling.
"This would probably get me fired and cross a shitload of doctor-patient boundaries."
"Say it."
"I was gonna make a joke about how I'd ask for your number when you get discharged. You know, to discuss the possibilities of 'follow-up care,' if you get my drift," he says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Do you want me to swap out the breakfast burrito with a bag of peas?"
"Yes, please," I say, handing him my makeshift ice pack, which has defrosted. Before he goes to the freezer, he kisses me once more, right where my headache hurts the most. For a moment, the throbbing pain dwindles.
Eren helps me write up "out-sick" emails to Erwin and my undergrad students, as well as a message to Bert asking him to cover my discussion section. I dictate the text, and Eren types it all down, making sure to keep the glare of the laptop screen facing away from me. "Oh, and use an em-dash," I tell him. "So it should be: 'I'm sorry for the trouble—em-dash, especially considering blah, blah, blah.' And don't confuse it with an en-dash or a hyphen."
"Err, why can't we just use a comma?"
"It's a stylistic thing."
"I'm literally Googling what an em-dash is… and then copy-pasting the symbol that comes up because I don't know the keyboard shortcut."
"It's the command key, then the shift bar, then—"
"I'll just do the copy-paste thing. Okay, ready to send?"
"Yep, send away."
But five minutes later, we're reminded of the importance of proofreading. My phone glows up, pinging again.
"Gabi and Falco are clearly hanging out right now," Eren remarks, checking the notification. "They both sent you emails. Huh, that's weird. So Falco, for some reason, is addressing me. It says: Hey, Eren! Wazzup? Best, Falco. And then I can't make head or tail of what Gabi's saying. It's just a bunch of winky and kissy emojis."
"Eren, how did you sign off that email?"
As always, that endearing sideways tip of his head.
"Well, fuck," he says, gaping at my laptop. "I'm a dumbass."
Migraines are dreadfully boring. It's not like the flu, where you can pass the time with Netflix pulled on a computer—even soothing lo-fi music makes my temples clench up. Sleep isn't an option either. I wake up every two hours, my temples pounding. And so it's largely hours upon hours of wasting away in a dark room, laying in dead silence, glancing at the clock every once in a while, only to find out that only several minutes have passed.
I can hear Eren's footsteps in the kitchen. It's 5AM, and he's getting ready to head to the hospital. The Keurig gurgles as he makes himself a cup of coffee to-go, and the sink runs as he washes himself an apple. The clink of a butter knife on a plate—he's preparing a PB&J sandwich for lunch. The drone of a microwave, followed by a beep. His breakfast burrito is done. Could it be the same one that cooled off my forehead yesterday night? He so would.
My bedroom door cracks open, and I roll away from the sliver of light from the hallway. He slips in, and the mattress creaks as he sits next to me. He puts a refilled water bottle on my nightstand. He removes the lukewarm bag of peas from my forehead, and his fingers gently brush aside hair from my face. He replaces the peas with a package of frozen waffles—but not without kissing me again, first in the middle of my forehead, followed by my temple, then my noise, and finally on the lips.
I can't help but giggle.
"Oops, caught red-handed. Good morning," he laughs. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," I reply, and he squeezes my hand.
"I gotta head out soon, but before I go, can I fetch you anything?"
"Horse tranquilizers."
He shoves me lightly. "Call me if you need anything. I can run back during lunch."
"I should be fine, but thanks, Eren."
He kisses me once more—on the lips this time. When the door closes behind him, a part of me deflates.
Around lunchtime, Eren calls me from the hospital. "Hey," he says. "I wanna tell you something funny."
"Please do," I say. "I've been staring at the back of my eyelids all morning."
"But first, have you eaten?"
"I had a bite. But my stomach's not in the mood for anything."
"Aw, shit. Do eat something later, okay? Even if it's just a nibble."
"Will do, Doc. What's the funny story?"
"So let me tell you why horse tranquilizers are great. By the way, we professionals call it ketamine." I can picture him smirking, pointing his half-eaten sandwich forward, as if I'm sitting across from him in the cafeteria. He probably bought himself a cup of coffee to refuel. On the table, I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of empty creamer cups and a packet of sugar. He probably winces after each sip. He always complains about how the cafeteria coffee is too sour.
"You're not a professional yet," I argue, covering my eyes with a pillow. Daylight is streaming through the tiny fibers of my curtains. "Don't you have a bunch more of those STEP exams, or whatever they're called?"
"Always a stickler for details." An eye-roll. But a smile. "Wanna hear the story?"
"Yeah, tell me."
"A fifteen-year-old girl proposed to Jean this morning." He's leaning back, one arm draped over an empty chair beside him, tossing his apple up and down. "We were in the elevator, and they wheeled her in from the ER, and she's babbling all this nonsense, being hopped up on K—I think she dislocated her shoulder, and they just popped it back in. Anyways, Jean and I are minding our own business, and this girl grabs Jean's wrist, and she goes, 'I wanna have a shotgun wedding with you. Let's go to Vegas!' Jean thinks he's all smooth, and he definitely can play the part, but when you catch him off guard, he gets super flustered, so he's just fuckin' flabbergasted. Oh, and guess what?"
"Hmm?" I'm smiling, wishing he were right next to me, letting me rest my head on his bicep, even though this probably makes his fingers go numb.
"I asked the girl if they needed anyone to officiate the wedding, and she said that I could do it. I just need to become a minister, but apparently, you can get ordained online, so that's gonna be a new hobby of mine."
"I'm trying to imagine you as a minister. Yeah, I just... can't." Laughing makes my head hurt worse, but I do it anyway. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I've seen you naked one too many times."
"Now that you mention it," he says. "That unholy stunt we pulled in that public bathroom might just disqualify me. What a shame."
"Sometimes, I reflect back on that night, and I just think to myself: Why?"
"Mikasa, I gotta say…" He pauses, probably taking a moment to glance around, making sure the coast is clear of eavesdroppers. And he grins. "That was probably the best blowjob I've ever received," he says in a hushed voice. "Like, I was mind-blown. Thirteen outta ten. World-class technique. You're incredible."
"Practice makes perfect, I guess. And I've had way too much practice."
"I'm not complaining." I can imagine the little wrinkles on his nose as he grins even more.
"I can't believe Armin walked in on us."
"But we were washing our hands. If anything, we were setting a good example."
"Missed the point by miles, but that's fine."
"Hey, I gotta dip, but don't miss me too much, okay?"
"Are you kidding? I'm relishing in the peace and quiet," I retort, and he laughs, seeing right through my lie.
Eren usually gets back before 7:30PM. Right after shift ends, he links up with Reiner, and they hit the pavement to decompress after a long day. Jean might join if he's not too exhausted. But it's nearing 8PM, and I haven't heard a single sound outside of my bedroom. Maybe they're doing a longer run, pushing for ten miles.
My migraine is hitting its peak intensity right around now. Taking a warm shower sometimes cushions the pain, but I throw up shortly after toweling myself off. Damp hair does me no favors, but the roar of a blow-dryer will only detonate my skull. I stagger from the bathroom back to my bedroom, gripping onto the wall for support. I haven't eaten all day, but the thought of food only rocks my stomach. I goad myself to take small, slow sips of water, but sure enough, this is the part of the migraine timeline that makes even Levi tear up.
I need to call him. He stays on the line with me during these rougher patches, and I do the same for him. He usually gripes about how our neurologist is inept, and he makes me tell him about my day. Translation: Distract me from this excruciating pain. Please.
"What's up, Princess?" Levi says when he picks up.
It's a Monday night, so he's sitting out on the front porch, drinking beers with Hange. "Heeey, Mikasa!" she chimes in. "Miss you, girl! Can't wait for you to come home for Turkey Day!"
By now, I'm sniffling. Tears are streaming down my face. Immediately, Levi tells Hange to pipe down. "Breathe, Mikasa," he reminds me. "Big, deep breaths. Do you have water nearby?"
"Mhm," I manage, pushing myself to sit up in bed. I reach for my Nalgene, and I untwist the cap.
"It'll be over before you know it," Levi says. "Hey, Hange. When the fuck are you scientists gonna figure out a cure for this godforsaken condition?"
"Hate to break it to you, but my area of expertise is virology," Hange concedes. "Not neurology."
"Where's your fuck buddy?" Levi asks me. "Isn't he a wannabe doctor?"
This makes me cry even more. "I don't know," I mumble, retightening the cap and hugging my water bottle close to my chest. "He's not home yet."
"Breathe. Oxygen's a good thing. Close your eyes too."
"Thanks, Levi," I say, following his instructions.
"How many hours out are you?"
"About thirty."
"Have you taken any Advil?"
"Yeah. I did, Levi. I have to wait another five hours until I can take some more."
"It's not doing jack shit, I'm guessing?"
"Nope," I mutter, blinking away more tears.
"Hey, Hange. When the fuck are you scientists gonna figure out how to make an over-the-counter painkiller that actually does shit but doesn't feed into the overdose epidemic?"
"Virology," Hange reiterates. "Not pharmaceuticals."
Levi snorts. "Well, Mikasa. Until science gets its shit together, we're gonna have to do this our old-fashioned way, alrighty?"
"Okay," I say, curling into a ball under my blankets. "Tell me about your day, Levi."
"Hmm, what did I do? Unremarkable day, honestly. I advised some seniors on their thesis writing in the AM, and I submitted an op-ed, but the editor at the Times thinks it's too 'inflammatory,' and he asked me to 'soften up' the tone. Ridiculous. They're losing their edge, but whatever, that's just my two cents. I also finally got around to dry-cleaning that Hawaiian shirt that you pilfered. I still can't believe you turned it into a fucking Halloween costume. Hange, you know that shirt I always wear on the last day of class during the spring semester? The red one with blue flowers and pink flamingos on it?"
"Oh, yeah! The 'Have a great summer break!' one?"
"Exactly. Mikasa decided to get crafty and turn it into a Halloween costume. Here, I've got a picture of this sacrilege."
"Holy crap, Mikasa! You look so good!"
"Quiet down, will you?" Levi growls on my behalf. "It's like you're actively trying to make her brain explode."
Suddenly, there's a knock on my door, and the knob turns slowly. I twist around, and the haze across my line of sight lifts momentarily when I see Eren poking his head into my room. "Hey, you awake?" he asks, stepping in. He's carrying a plastic bag.
"Levi, Eren's back with dinner," I say into my phone. "Thanks for everything."
"You hear that, Hange? Her prince in shining armor has returned at last. I guess we're irrelevant now."
"Thanks, Levi. I miss you," I say before hanging up. "You too, Hange."
"How's your uncle doing?" Eren sits on the edge of my bed, putting the plastic bag on my nightstand. "Wait, Mikasa? Have you been crying? Your eyes are all watery."
"It's fine. This migraine's hitting its peak right now," I tell him. Tears just keep streaming out.
"Shit, Mikasa… You weren't kidding about the horse tranquilizers, were you?"
"It's fine, I'll be okay," I say through sniffles. "Even Levi cries."
"Scoot over," Eren tells me, and he crawls onto my bed until he's laying next to me, enveloping me in his arms. I bury my head into his chest, and he smells like his soap and shampoo. His hair is slightly wet from showering at the hospital. "Sorry I'm late," he says, cradling my face with a hand. He brushes my cheek with his thumb. "Reiner wanted to do a long run, and my phone died because I was tracking our mileage. I should've gotten back sooner."
"You're good," I murmur. The front of his shirt is soaked with my tears.
"But," he says. He withdraws his arms, and cold air rushes into the voids he leaves when he sits up. "I got you something." The plastic bag on my nightstand crinkles, and he uncaps a plastic takeout container. "Full disclosure: I tried some of it, and it literally tastes like nothing, but you said it's the only thing you like to eat when you're dealing with migraines, so I went hunting for it on Canal Street."
When I sit up, his arm is around me again, his hand hooked around my waist, and I lean my head against his shoulder. He hands me a plastic soup spoon, and he offers me the container. It's rice congee, a sludgy white porridge largely devoid of flavor, apart from a few coriander leaves and some chopped ginger. "Thanks," I tell him, leaning in to kiss him.
He sits with me as I force down the congee, passing me some water every now and then. He originally got himself a club sandwich from a deli, but a wadded-up ball of trash was what remained of it by the time he got home. I ask him to tell me about his day, and he regales me with tales from the hospital. "Jean keeps asking about you," he teases me, but he holds me closer—almost protectively.
"Do you need to study tonight?" I ask him when I finish my dinner. Not a protest from my stomach, so far.
"I'm in med school. I always have to study," he laments. "But it's just a mountain of flashcard reviews tonight."
"Do you need a whole lot of light?"
"I can put my phone screen at the lowest brightness setting," he suggests.
And he lays here with me in the dark, going through cards on his phone. The corner of his mouth turns up triumphantly when he gets a flashcard right. He rolls his eyes when a question stumps him. My fingers intertwine with his, and I trail my thumb across his knuckles.
"How are you feeling?" When he asks, the usual edge in his tone softens.
"Like someone's using the ski pole sticking out of my brain as a joystick for Mario Kart," I grumble.
"How often do you get these?"
"It used to be once a month with my period, but ever since I started taking Atenolol, once every couple of months."
"That's still a real bummer," he says. "This shit knocks you out for days, huh?"
"Yeah, but Erwin's sympathetic. And Pixis—that editor who calls me 'dear'—gets it. I'm fortunate."
"The only people giving you a hard time about it are your undergrads."
"That's because you signed off my emails with Best, Eren."
He kisses my forehead. "I'll make sure to tease Falco about his new girlfriend the next time I see him."
Ping.
Eren checks my phone. "Levi," he says. "And he texted you: Are you alive?"
"Send him that emoji with a party hat and confetti. Inside joke."
"Sent," Eren announces. "Do migraines run through your family?"
"Sadly," I reply. "It feels really unfair sometimes. My kids and grandkids are probably going to grow up with migraines too, and there's nothing I can't do about it. It's cruel, but that's life, I guess."
"Mikasa, I completely get you." Eren's voice hardens all of a sudden.
"Do you?"
"Absolutely. One-hundred percent," he says firmly. He's about to follow up with something, but at the very last minute, he ricochets into a different direction. I know this because that fake, breezy lightness seeps back into his tone. "I've seen a ton of patients deal with hereditary conditions," he says emptily, and then the ball's in my court again: "It really does suck, doesn't it?"
"It does, but here's the thing," I say. "Things were so awkward and rocky when I first moved in with Levi. We were essentially strangers, and right off the bat, I couldn't stand him. But migraines did the impossible. Somehow, they brought us together and taught us how to coexist under the same roof. This might sound cheesy, but that's one beautiful upside to getting these unlucky Ackerman genes."
Eren is quiet at this. For a while, it's silent between us. I can almost hear each throb of my migraine, pulsing like a Morse code signal into the night. Just as I'm about to say something, Eren cups my face, and he presses his lips against mine. He kisses me with an intensity that takes me by surprise. When we come up for air, he hugs me tightly, and we stay like that for a while, neither one of us uttering a single word. But this isn't one of those warm, comfortable silences that we enjoy after sex. Or one of those stretches of peaceful quiet that surround us in the living room when he's studying and I'm writing. In those moments, there were no words to say—unlike now.
I lift myself up until I'm looking directly into his eyes. An inward momentum pushes me forward. "Hey, Eren?" I venture to ask.
"Yeah, Mikasa?" he says.
I've taken my first step on the tightrope between us, my arms outstretched for balance, my ankle wobbling on the wire. I glance below me. Not a safety net to be seen. Panic rushes through me. I skitter backwards, stumbling—and thankfully, I land on the planks of a sturdy platform. Not today. Not when my skull feels like it's on the verge of splintering into pieces.
"Listen," I tell him. "You're the best. I hope you know that."
And I kiss him.
But one day, I'll muster up the courage.
"Hey, Eren?" I'll urge myself to say.
"Yeah, Mikasa?" he'll reply.
When that day comes, I'll take a running start. I'll spring off of this platform, and I won't look back. Nor will I look down. Just forward. I'll stick the landing on the wire, steady on my feet. And the words will come out, effortlessly.
"Listen, Eren," I'll tell him, without hesitation. "I'm falling in love with you."
And hopefully, at the other end of this tightrope, he'll meet me halfway, taking that leap as well.
A/N: "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson is playing right now, and ugh. Just, ugh.
So this chapter would not have been made possible if it weren't for Jess (Tumblr: thecrowsare-watching). Jess, you're incredible. Thank you so fucking much for A) setting aside the time to comb through my earlier draft of this chapter and B) being so, so, so generous and detailed and thoughtful with your feedback! Jess did me a solid and helped me finetune the details surrounding those dreaded AckerAches, so wow, she's just amazing. I really do try to capture reality as much as I can, so honestly, if any of you guys spot some places that made you all raise an eyebrow, please don't hesitate to give me a shout!
Also, this chapter goes to Romy (Tumblr: its-rogue-lebeau-blog), who had the brilliant idea of having Eren the med student care for a sick Mikasa. And so, here's my take on that! You rock, Romy. And your insights and takeaways never fail to brighten my day!
Please lemme know what you guys thought of this chapter! I'm cranking out the next one, and I've got loads planned, HAHA.