You wake up with a familiar heaviness in your abdomen and the unmistakable ache low in your back. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, just lingers—an unwelcome shadow. The warmth between your thighs confirms it. Of course. Perfect timing.

You shuffle into the kitchen in one of Simon’s oversized shirts, feet dragging like your body is made of bricks. He’s already there, leaned against the counter, wearing joggers that hang low on his hips and no t-shirt—arms crossed, coffee mug in one hand, his phone in the other.

He notices you before you speak. Always does.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low but laced with concern.

You give a noncommittal shrug and rest your head against his arm. He doesn’t need a full explanation.

“Bad one?” he murmurs.