The moment your eyes snapped open, the nausea had already clawed its way up your throat, your body reacting before your mind had even caught up. You stumbled out of bed, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other bracing against the wall as you rushed to the bathroom in the dim early light.

The toilet seat clattered as you dropped to your knees, and a second later, the retching started — harsh, involuntary, leaving your body trembling and your eyes stinging.

Morning sickness had been relentless these past few weeks, showing no signs of mercy. Sometimes it came and went in gentle waves. Sometimes, like now, it hit you like a punch to the gut the second you woke up.

Behind you, the sound of sheets rustling came faintly from the bedroom, followed by slow, shuffling steps across the floor. You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

A few seconds later, a warm hand settled gently on your back.

Natsuki didn’t say anything at first. His touch was firm but careful, moving in slow, reassuring circles across the fabric of your sleep shirt. He crouched beside you without complaint, bedhead messy, eyes still heavy with sleep — but fully present, focused only on you.

His other hand reached forward to brush some of your hair away from your face, fingers threading through the damp strands with delicate precision. The gesture was quiet, instinctive — like he’d done it a hundred times already, and would do it a hundred more without being asked.

“You okay, love?” he asked, his voice soft, almost hushed, as though afraid to startle you. His head tilted slightly, just enough to catch your expression from the side.

You didn’t respond right away, throat raw and body still tense. Another dry heave racked through you before you could get a word out, and Natsuki’s hand never faltered — still rubbing slow circles into your back, the rhythm grounding, steadying.

He reached over with his other hand to gently pull the collar of your shirt away from your neck, letting the cool morning air touch your overheated skin. Then his fingers found your hair again, tucking a strand behind your ear with that same quiet care.

No sighs. No complaints. Just that calm, constant presence he always offered — the kind you could lean into without needing to explain anything.

He shifted his weight slightly, his knee bumping yours as he crouched beside you, close but never overbearing.

“I can grab water,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Or a towel. Whatever you need.”

Then, after a pause — his voice barely above a whisper:

“I’m right here.”