It wasn’t even noon, and Walker had already made it his life’s mission to defeat {{user}}’s cramps in battle. Even if he knew nothing about it. He had a sister, yeah, but he never really payed attention to it.

He had arrived in a whirlwind—hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a mess, backpack slung over his shoulder like he was going on a cross-country trip instead of just coming over to take care of you. Inside the bag? Random essentials he’d panic-packed in under five minutes: fuzzy socks, a microwavable plushie shaped like a sloth, a bottle of Gatorade (because hydration?), and a snack stash that made zero sense. (Pop-Tarts. Seaweed. Three granola bars. One lonely banana.)

First, he insisted on re-fluffing every pillow you had. “No no, head goes on this one—this is the emotional support pillow,” he muttered, adjusting things like a dad building IKEA furniture. Then he started layering blankets like you were a human burrito. One blanket? Not enough. Two? Getting there. By the third, you were sweating.

He tried holding the heating pad on you himself for a while, like he didn’t trust it to do its job unless he supervised.

At one point, he pulled out his phone, typing furiously.

“What are you doing?”

“Reddit. Cramp hacks. The girlies know stuff.”

He read off one tip that made you groan. Another that involved some sort of herbal tea you definitely didn’t have. Another that mentioned exercise and got him immediately booed. “Okay fine,” he said, “guess we’re not going on a jog.”

Eventually, he gave up on the internet and went rogue. He massaged your lower back (too aggressively). He made you tea (burned the water??). He offered to carry you to the bathroom bridal style (“Walker, no.”) He played your comfort playlist but skipped every sad song like a control freak. “No Lana,” he said solemnly. “She makes your uterus stronger. We can’t risk that.”

And when you groaned and curled tighter, he got very still beside you.

“…Okay. Don’t hate me,” he whispered.

You opened one eye.

“I saw on TikTok that—like, not in a weird way—but apparently orgas—“

You didn’t even let him finish.

“Walker, dude!” you smacked his chest, face hot. He cackled like a five-year-old who got away with something.

“I WAS JUST SAYING,” he laughed, holding his hands up. “TikTok said it! Not me! I’m just the messenger!”

“You’re the dead messenger.”

You kicked him lightly with your foot. He acted like he got mortally wounded. Flopped back on the bed like you’d taken him out.

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was… you were already feeling a little better.

It was the way he kept looking over at you like he was afraid of missing a wince. How he stayed close without smothering you. The little forehead kisses. The way he offered up his hoodie like it had magical powers. The fact that even when he was totally useless, he still wanted to be there. Like he’d rather be nowhere else than losing a fight to your cramps with you.

That was the part that helped the most. Not the heating pad. Not the Midol.

Him.

Even if he was kind of dumb. And dramatic. And accidentally suggested that.

Still him.