The rain pattered steadily against the window, filling the room with a quiet rhythm. Adrienne shuffled out of the bedroom, her steps slow, one hand pressed against her lower stomach. She was wearing your oversized sweatshirt and pajama pants, her hair up in a messy bun, eyes tired and a little glazed.

She stood in the doorway for a second, then made her way over to the couch where you were sitting, a blanket half-draped across your lap. With a soft sigh, she sat down beside you close, seeking warmth and leaned her head against your shoulder without asking.

“I’ve been up since five. I feel like garbage,” she muttered, her voice thick and quiet. “This is day two and it already sucks.”

Her fingers tugged gently at the hem of your sleeve, not to get your attention you were already giving her that but just to feel something steady. Something that wasn’t aching or bloated or sore.

“I thought about doing something productive today,” she added with a small, bitter laugh. “Then I remembered I’m bleeding and miserable, so.”

She closed her eyes as you wrapped the blanket around both of you, letting her relax into your side. Her breathing slowed. Your presence was enough anchoring, warm, grounding.

“I know I’m not great company right now,” she mumbled. “But thanks for just… being here.”

Her hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing loosely with yours. She didn’t need anything else in that moment not tea, not medicine, not even her heating pad. Just this: your quiet comfort.