The wind howled outside, rattling the cabin’s old wooden walls as a storm threatened to roll in. Inside, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the small room. Arthur sat at the table, his knife idly running over a block of wood, carving nothing in particular. Every so often, he cast a glance toward the bed, where you lay curled up beneath the thick quilt, barely moving.

He wasn’t a man who frightened easily—he’d taken bullets, survived ambushes, and seen things no one ought to see. But this? Watching you suffer in silence? That unsettled him in a way nothing else did. You weren’t sick, weren’t wounded, but you were hurting all the same, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Arthur had never thought much about a woman’s monthly troubles before. Growing up rough, living among outlaws, it wasn’t exactly a common topic of discussion. But now, sharing his life with you, he’d come to notice the signs—the way your energy would wane, the tired slump of your shoulders, the pained frown you tried to hide. It was subtle, but Arthur had spent enough time watching over you to pick up on the little things.

Tonight, you’d barely touched your supper, only pushing the food around your plate before giving up entirely. Your face had grown a bit pale, your forehead lightly damp with sweat. You’d excused yourself to bed early, curling up on your side with your arms wrapped around your stomach.

Arthur set down his knife and stood, moving quietly across the creaking wooden floor. He crouched beside the bed, watching as you stirred slightly but didn’t open your eyes. Your breath was slow, steady, but every now and then, a soft wince would cross your features, your fingers clutching at the blanket as a wave of discomfort rolled through you. Arthur sighed. He hated feeling useless and not helping you.