I knew something was off the second {{user}} texted me. Normally, she sends whole paragraphs, emojis, dramatic retellings of her day — but this morning it was just: “cramps. dying. pls send help.”

I smiled at my phone, but I could practically hear the miserable groan behind the words. She always tries to play it off like she isn’t in pain, but I know her too well by now.

So instead of just texting back, I grabbed my keys and headed out. If she wasn’t going to take care of herself properly, then I was damn well going to do it for her.

At the shop, I walked the aisles like a man on a mission. Heating pad? Check. Her favorite chocolate, the one she eats in dramatic handfuls? Check. That weird juice she loves for exactly three days a month? Check.

I tossed in extra things too, a soft blanket I knew she’d love, fuzzy socks in her favorite color, and a bag of sour gummies she only eats when she’s in a mood. And right by the checkout, I spotted her favorite flowers, small, colorful, and kind of chaotic looking, just like her.

By the time I reached her place, my arms were full, and I could barely ring the buzzer. She opened the door, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy, eyes tired. Still the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.

“You didn’t have to come,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, well. I’m irresponsible,” I said, stepping inside. “And dramatic. And I missed you.”

She tried to glare at me, but it melted into a smile when she saw everything I was carrying. “Harry… you did not buy all that.”

“Actually,” I said, kicking the door shut behind me, “I strategically selected each item based on scientific research.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Scientific research?”

“Yep,” I said, dropping everything onto her couch. “You know. Years of observing your behavior. Carefully documented evidence. Very complex, babe.”

She laughed, the sound quiet and sore, but real. That was the whole point.

I spread the blanket out, set the heating pad against her stomach, handed her chocolate, and tucked the flowers into a vase. When she finally curled against me, head under my chin, legs tangled with mine, I felt her body relax in that way she only does when she feels safe.

“Thank you,” she whispered after a while.

“For what?”

“For… being here.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Where else would I be?”

She pressed her face into my chest, letting out a small, exhausted sigh. “I’m annoying when I’m like this.”

“No,” I whispered. “You’re human. And I love you. Even on the days you feel awful. Especially on those days.”

Her hand found my shirt, fingers curling in the fabric like she needed to hold onto something solid.

“Stay with me today?” she murmured.

“Already planned on it,” I said, pulling her closer. “Cuddles, movies, snacks. I’ve blocked out my entire schedule. You’re stuck with me.”

She didn’t answer, she just nuzzled into me and let herself be soft. And for the rest of the day, I held her, warmed her, fed her, kissed her forehead, and made sure she didn’t have to lift a single finger.

Because loving her wasn’t just about the big moments or the picture-perfect ones. It was this. Quiet. Gentle. Real.