You’d been curled up in bed since morning, the ache in your lower stomach so intense it made you see stars every time you shifted. The cramps were relentless today—worse than usual—and by the time classes started, you knew there was no point in trying to go. The dorm room was dim, a pillow pressed tightly to your abdomen, your breath slow and shallow as you waited for the pain to pass or at least soften.

You haven’t touched your phone much. You didn’t have the energy to answer messages, not even from him.

Then—softly—three knocks at the door. Familiar. You didn’t even need to answer. The door creaked open a little, and Eugene peeked in with that cautious, warm look he always wore when he was worried about you. His curls were slightly messy from the day, his eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses and searching the room until they found you, curled up under the blanket.

He stepped inside slowly, carefully closing the door behind him.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice laced with concern, already walking toward your bed. “You weren’t in class… and I figured something was wrong.”

You tried to smile, but it came out more like a wince.

He crouched beside your bed, eyes scanning your face. “Bad day?”

You nodded. Barely.

“Really bad,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “My period hit like a truck this time.”

That was all you had to say. He didn’t flinch, didn’t make a face, didn’t get awkward. He just nodded slowly, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said gently. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve skipped class.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already toeing off his shoes, slipping out of his jacket, and sitting carefully on the edge of your bed.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered, blinking at him through the ache. “I just need to get through this.”

“I know,” he said, reaching to brush a bit of hair from your forehead. His touch was featherlight, full of tenderness. “But I want to be here. If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t need to answer. You shifted, wincing again, and he immediately adjusted, helping you ease your head into his lap. His fingers found your hair, gently running through it, steady and slow.

“I brought you tea,” he said after a moment, nodding toward the small thermos bag he’d dropped by the door. “And one of those heat pads you liked last time. I remembered.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what you’d done to deserve someone like him—someone who remembered, who showed up, who understood without needing you to explain every detail.

The pain was still there, sharp and biting, but the warmth of his hand, the low hum of his voice as he started talking softly about the ridiculous things Pugsley had said in class today, the gentle pressure of his touch — it made it bearable.

“I don’t expect you to talk,” he said eventually. “Just rest. I’ll stay as long as you need.”

You close your eyes, letting the sound of his voice carry you for a while. Letting him hold the pain with you—even if he couldn’t take it away.

Tonight wasn’t chill. Not for you. But it was quiet, safe, and full of love.

And that was more than enough.