The rain had been falling for hours, soft and steady against the windows of Alex’s penthouse. The whole apartment was quiet except for the sound of water and the low hum of the city beyond the glass. The lights were dim—just the warm glow from the living room casting everything in amber, like you were wrapped in a cocoon.

You were already wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves pulled over your hands, the collar stretched from how many times you’d tugged at it. The cramps hadn’t let up since noon, and the wine hadn’t helped the way you thought it might. If anything, it made everything worse—your body achy, your chest tight, your head foggy with the kind of sadness that didn’t need a reason.

Alex hadn’t left your side.

You were curled against him now, folded into his lap with your cheek against his chest. His arms were around you like a fortress, one hand stroking slow, methodical circles along your back. He hadn’t said much—not until now.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

He pulled the blanket tighter around you, tucking it behind your knees before adjusting you slightly—closer, like you weren’t already curled into him like something precious.

“Tell me what hurts, baby.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered, “I feel gross. And bloated. And my uterus is trying to murder me.”

He didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk. Just, “Then we’ll kill your uterus together.”

You let out a watery breath that might’ve been a laugh. He kissed your temple, slow and deliberate, like he meant to seal something there.

“Where else?” he asked. “Head? Stomach? Or just existential despair from three glasses of wine?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you sniffed. “I’m just—sad. And my cramps feel like a knife is twisting around in there.”

“Okay.”

That was all he said. But the tone he used was the same one he took into boardrooms, the one that made grown men stutter and sign over their empires. He wasn’t brushing it off. He was preparing for war.

He shifted you again, carefully, one large hand sliding beneath the blanket and resting firmly over your lower stomach. Warm. Anchoring.

“Pressure helps, right? Breathe with me.”

You tried. It helped a little.

“You’re not gross,” he said after a moment. “You’re not too much. And I swear to God, if your uterus were a man, I’d beat it bloody.”

That made you laugh—actually laugh, even through the tears still clinging to your lashes. “You can’t punch organs, Alex.”

“I’ll find a way.”

His hand moved to your hair, combing through it slowly. Then he tilted your chin up so you’d look at him. His eyes were sharp as ever, but softer now too—just for you.

“Next time, tell me sooner,” he said. “If you’re in pain—emotional, physical, I don’t care—I want to know. I’m not good at this soft shit, but for you, I’ll try.”

He cupped your jaw, his thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.

“You’re mine. That means I take care of you. Even when you’re irrational and full of wine.”