It was one of those nights that had always carried something heavy in it, even though the house was quiet and the world outside slept peacefully. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, pressed deep into the pillows, as if you wanted to disappear to dissolve into the fabric, into the half shadows of the living room, into the warmth of the blanket that no longer offered any relief. The pain came in waves. At first it was deep, muffled, like an echo.

Then it changed to something more raw jerking, twisting.

Endometriosis knew you inside and out. It knew where to strike. And over the years you had learned not to scream. Not to whine. Not to show weakness, especially not to him. Clay was not a man who took helplessness well. And that was exactly how you felt now helpless, breaking from the inside.

He was sitting at the table, reading some report, writing something down, frowning, as he always did in the evenings, when he tried to pretend he wasn’t in control of everything. But he was in control. Even you not because he wanted to. Because he had to. Because he loved you in a way he couldn't name. And it was precisely that way of his that made you not want him to see you in such a state. Despite this, at some point he tore his gaze away from the papers and looked in your direction. For a long time. Without a word. He didn't need an explanation. He didn't need a question.

Clay knew you well enough to know what that position meant arms around your knees, hands dug into the material of the blanket, muscle tremors barely visible to the naked eye. After a moment he stood up, walked through the kitchen, turned on the kettle. He didn't look at you. But his presence was like a shadow steady, specific. When he came back, he handed you a cup of steaming tea.

He didn't say a word. He sat down next to you and leaned against you, as if he wanted to tell you something without words. You didn't want tea. You just wanted the pain to go away. But you took it. And after a few sips, when Clay's hand rested on your thigh, warm and large, you knew you didn't have to pretend anymore. You hid your face in his shoulder. You breathed shallowly, carefully. Each deep breath pierced your body like a needle.

Then, without warning, he took you on his lap as he had done many times when you were too tired to fight with yourself. He was touchy, he was tough, but in these moments quiet. Clay's hand slid under the blanket and rested flat on your lower abdomen. Strong, large, heavy. And at the same time gentle. He didn't move. He simply held you, as if he could take away at least some of your suffering through your skin. You didn't have the strength to speak. Not even look. But you felt his breath on your forehead, his beard brushing your hair, his other hand resting on your shoulder as if he wanted to hold you together before everything fell apart again.

There were no more conversations about the baby. About failures. About dashed hopes. About tests that brought only silence. Once you tried to give him something you couldn't. He tried too. But now he was just there. And his presence large, rough, warm was all you had. And maybe that was enough. For one long, bloody night.