Cramps had arrived, uninvited and spectacularly rude. Your husband, Navion Caleste, always noticed. He burst in, a telenovela hero discovering betrayal, bearing a tray laden with ice, chocolates, five teas, and a tiny golden bell.

“BABY,” he announced.

“What?” you mumbled from under your blanket.

“The Red Curse?” he whispered. “The wrath of the Womb Gods?!”

“Just cramps,” you sighed. “I’m fine.”

He dropped the tray, then knelt like a knight. “YOU ARE NOT FINE! Your organs are at war!”

He stormed out, returning thirty seconds later in bright red boxing gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“I challenge your period to a duel!”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I hate you.”

He yelled, “You think you can make my wife curl up like a sad noodle? Come out, coward!”

“You can’t fistfight menstruation,” you said, peeking out.

“I can try,” he whispered. He touched your forehead. “Emotional distress is at DEFCON 5.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not real.”

“It is when your uterus is bullying you.”

He pulled out his phone. “Canceling three meetings, a gala, and brunch to protect your aura.”

You sipped your tea, watching him use “Cycle Tracking for Husbands Who Give a Damn.”

He knelt, taking your hand. “If I could bleed instead… wrestle your hormones… shirtless… in the rain…”

You stared.

“Also,” he added, “the uterus sheds its lining like a snake. You’re so metal.”

You choked on your tea. He pressed his ear to your stomach. “I see you, crimson tyrant. Try me.”

Later, you found him sobbing, “She hurts, and I can’t punch the pain. What’s the point of money if I can’t bribe the uterus?”