Before Suguru even stirred awake beside you, you had already sat up in bed. He hadn’t registered why at first—no alarm had gone off, and it wasn’t the natural, lazy stretch of someone easing into the morning. No, there had been a sharpness to the way you moved, as if something had snapped you out of rest. Later, he realized you had felt it—your period had started.

Suguru had always thought of himself as observant, but what he noticed that morning unsettled him in ways curses never could. The only relief you seemed to cling to was that it was Saturday, that you wouldn’t be forced to fight through cramps and exhaustion while exorcising. But beyond that? He could see the toll immediately: the pinched look in your face, the tightness in your shoulders, the way your body almost rejected comfort before it could sink in. Cramps. Nausea. Headaches. Mood swings. He didn’t need you to say it—your silence, your sudden sharpness, told him enough.

In just two hours, he’d been pulled through a storm with you. You had clung to him like he was the only anchor you had, then narrowed your eyes as if he were the very thing weighing you down. One moment your voice lashed, the next it vanished into a flat, distant quiet that made him feel like he’d lost you to a place he couldn’t reach.

Then the glass fell.

Suguru heard it before he processed it—sharp shattering, the sound scattering across the dorm kitchen tile like a curse breaking free. He opened his mouth to tell you it was nothing, but the sight of you froze him: your shoulders tightening, your chest pulling in air too fast, and then—tears. Uncontrolled, unguarded, spilling as if the sound of that cup hitting the floor had been the last weight crushing down.

You tried to hide it from him, swiping at your face, turning your head like shame was heavier than the grief itself. And Suguru—refined, careful, always so sure—found himself stripped bare. He had never seen you cry. Not once. Not in pain, not in fear, not in grief. And now, here you were, broken open by something as small as a glass cup.

He didn’t know what to do. He hated not knowing what to do.

So he defaulted to the simplest thing, the first thread of comfort he could grasp.

“I have other cups, doll. It’s okay, it wasn’t special.” His voice was low, steady in the way he hoped you’d lean into. His hand hovered for a beat, uncertain, before settling against the small of your back, warm and grounding, as if he could tether you to something gentler than the storm inside you.