THE APARTMENT FELT HEAVY THAT EVENING — NOT DARK, JUST QUIET IN THAT WAY PAIN MAKES THINGS QUIET. The rain outside had slowed to a soft tapping, barely there, like the city was whispering instead of breathing. The curtains were drawn, the room dim, and the only real light came from the warm bedside lamp you hadn’t bothered turning off after curling up in bed hours ago.

The sheets around you were tangled from shifting in discomfort, the hot water bag pressed against your stomach already lukewarm. Cramps pulsed dull and stubborn, sinking into your spine and mood until everything felt… too much. You hadn’t even bothered with TV — just the sound of rain and your own breathing.

The front door clicked softly.

You didn’t move. Didn’t have the energy to.

There were footsteps — familiar ones, steady, heavy from training but careful in the way he moved when he thought you might be sleeping. A rustle, the sound of something being set down. Then his voice, warm and low:

“Amore…? I’m home.”

You managed a soft hum. That was all.

Riccardo appeared in the doorway a second later — hair damp from the shower at the Arsenal training center, hoodie slightly wrinkled, cheeks flushed from the cold outside. But it was his arms that made your throat tighten. Full. Overflowing.

A bouquet of your favorite flowers. Your favorite chocolates. A small bag with medicine. Two boxes of tea. A brand-new hot water bottle. And a gift bag with tissue paper stubbornly sticking out the top because he clearly stuffed things in last second.

When he saw you curled up, face tired, eyes a little glassy, his whole expression softened — like everything in him lowered itself to your level.

He set everything down on the nightstand gently, like any loud noise might hurt you.

Then he crawled onto the bed, slow and deliberate, slipping behind you so you could tuck into him without thinking. His arms wrapped around your waist, one hand immediately finding the warm pack and replacing it with the new one he’d already filled with hot water.

“You didn’t text me back,” he murmured into your shoulder, voice hushed, concerned but tender. “I thought you might be having a rough one.”

You exhaled shakily. “It’s bad today.”

He let out a soft sound — something between sympathy and frustration he couldn’t fix it for you.

His lips brushed your temple. “I know, amore. I got you everything I could think of. And I can give you a massage later, back, legs, whatever you need.”

His hand rubbed soothing circles on your hip, not too firm, not too light, like he somehow knew exactly what your body needed.

And for the first time all day, the weight in your body loosened — not gone, but lighter — because Riccardo was here, wrapping you up in that quiet, steady love he always carried home to you.