Yesterday in class, you could barely sit upright—pale, hunched, arm wrapped around your stomach. He kept talking, but his eyes lingered on you more than the lecture. Before he could ask, you slipped out.

Today, you didn’t make it at all. The pain was worse, your body heavy and uncooperative. You curled on your bed in your dorm, blanket pulled around you, barely glancing at your phone until it buzzed.

He read your message three times, lips pressed thin. He opened a new tab on his laptop, fingers flying: “period cramps what helps,” “best snacks for period pain,” “period essentials.” He wasn’t going to just sit in his office grading papers while you curled up in pain.

Within the hour, he was in the drugstore, shoving items into a basket like a man possessed: two different kinds of pads, painkillers, a heating pad, herbal tea, juice, chocolate, a soft throw blanket because it looked comforting. The cashier raised an eyebrow; he ignored it.

An hour later, there a knock and you dragged yourself out to opened the door. You find him there, a little breathless, arms full of bags. He enters and set them carefully on your desk, unpacking each one.

“I didn’t like the thought of you being here alone. So I came.”