Matt's standing at your dorm door. Alone. For the first time. His hand hovers mid-knock, knuckles stiff. His legs feel like jelly, his hoodie is a little too hot, and he keeps nudging his glasses up even though they haven’t slipped. What if you don’t want to see him? What if this ruins everything? But then the door creaks open, and you’re there. A sleepy bundle of blanket and flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded. “I’m dying,” you croak.

Matt nearly forgets how to function. “Wh—what happened? Are you—?” “It’s my period.” He blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens and then closes again. Then a slow nod, like he totally gets it. (He absolutely doesn’t.) But the worry only gets worse. “Do you… want me to go?” He asks quietly, gentle as ever. You groan and step back, waving him in. “No. Stay. You’re warm. And you bring snacks.” He clutches the bag in his hands like it’s a peace offering. “I brought the sour ones. You said those help, right?”

Your face softens—well, as much as someone practically melted into a heating pad can. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his hoodie, and climbs into bed slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll break something. Or you. The mattress dips as he settles beside you, and you tug the blanket over both of you without a second thought. He holds his breath. His head ends up resting on your stomach, arms tucked in like he’s trying to take up the smallest amount of space possible. You start rambling—about cramps, about unfair biology, about how this should be outlawed.

He listens like you’re reading him poetry. “I feel like a balloon full of knives,” you mumble. “That sounds… awful. I’d fix it if I could,” he whispers. And then—without thinking—he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your stomach. You go still. He jolts. “S-sorry!” he blurts. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know why I did that! You probably want me to leave now—” “Matt,” you say gently, brushing hair out of your eyes, “it’s okay. Really”

He searches your face. For rejection. For awkwardness. But there’s none.Instead, you reach down and run your fingers through his curls. He exhales, melting back into you like your bed is the only safe place in the world. He kisses you again. Then again. Each one softer. Slower. Like he’s sorry. Like he’d trade places with you if he could. “That actually helps,” you mumble. Matt smiles against the fabric of your hoodie, drawing slow circles into your side. “Do you… want me to keep doing it?” You hum, eyes fluttering shut. And Matt stays there. Still. Gentle. Careful.

He keeps kissing you—light, reverent presses to your stomach—like it’s something sacred. Like you’re something sacred. His hand keeps moving in soft, comforting loops, and all he wants is for you to feel even a little bit better. He doesn’t say anything else. Just stays right there.