The bunker was unusually still, the kind of silence that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. You sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a mug of lukewarm tea, your body aching and your patience worn thin. Cramps pulsed low in your belly, and the dull throb behind your eyes warned of an incoming migraine. You hadn’t said much all day.

Sam noticed.

He always noticed.

He entered the kitchen without a word, barefoot and soft-eyed, carrying a folded blanket and a small heating pad. He didn’t ask what was wrong—he didn’t need to. Instead, he gently draped the blanket over your shoulders and plugged in the heating pad, setting it on your lap with a quiet, “Here.”

You blinked up at him, throat tight. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, crouching beside you. “But I wanted to.”

You let out a shaky breath, the kind that carried more than just pain. Sam reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said again, voice low and steady. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

He stood and moved to the stove, reheating your tea without asking. Then he opened the cabinet above the fridge—his secret stash of dark chocolate and herbal remedies—and pulled out a bar and a small bottle of magnesium supplements. “I did some reading,” he said, sheepish. “Apparently these help.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Only for you.”

When he returned, he sat beside you, letting you lean into his side. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, his warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight through a window. He didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t rush you. He just stayed.

And in the quiet, that was everything.