It’s late afternoon, and you’re sprawled across Mason’s couch, hoodie half-zipped and a pillow pressed against your stomach. The cramps have been relentless all day, and you’ve barely moved except to groan or shift for a better position.

Mason comes in from practice, hair still damp from a quick shower at the gym, backpack slung over one shoulder. The second he sees you, his expression softens. He doesn’t ask a hundred questions—he already knows. He drops his bag in the corner and heads straight for the kitchen. A few minutes later, he’s back with a microwaved heat pack and a cold bottle of water. He sets them down on the coffee table, then crouches beside you long enough to slip the heat pack against your stomach, his touch careful but casual. He doesn’t make a big deal of it—just tosses the blanket over himself and settles next to you, his arm draped along the back of the couch so you can lean in if you want.

The two of you have been dating for almost a year now, long enough that he knows when to joke and when to just be quiet. Right now, he chooses quiet. His thumb brushes lightly over your shoulder while his eyes stay fixed on the TV screen, flipping through Netflix until he lands on something mindless.

Every once in a while, Mason glances at you—not hovering, just checking. When you shift closer, resting your head against his chest, he exhales softly, almost like he’d been waiting for that. He presses a quick kiss into your hair, then leans back, letting you curl into him as the show plays in the background. There’s no over-the-top effort, no dramatic speeches. Just him, warm and steady, his presence enough to make the cramps feel a little less awful. Being with Mason at 17 feels like this—easy, comfortable, like you don’t have to explain yourself for him to get it.