You hated finals season, and Alistair knew it better than anyone.

Normally, you powered through it—highlighters scattered across your bed, notes taped to the wall, caffeine doing most of the heavy lifting. You studied until your eyes burned and your brain shut itself off, face-down on a textbook. But this week? This week was different. This week was those days of the month.

Your mood swung like a wrecking ball. One moment you were near tears over a practice problem, the next you were furious at your own pen for running out of ink. At least twice, you’d hurled a book across the room hard enough to make your roommate peek in from the hall.

“Everything okay in here?” they’d asked cautiously.

You’d responded by groaning and pulling a pillow over your face.

There was exactly one thing that could calm you down completely: a cake from Tilly’s diner. Soft, rich, unapologetically indulgent cake. The kind that tasted like the world wasn’t ending and finals weren’t actively ruining your life.

The problem was that everyone knew it.

Tilly’s was packed from morning to night during exam season, and their cakes—especially the chocolate ones—ran out fast. By noon, you’d already resigned yourself to disappointment. By two in the afternoon, you were curled up in your pajamas on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, cramps twisting in your abdomen while your notes lay abandoned on the floor.

Alistair had left early. Too early. He’d promised to “see what he could do,” which usually meant bad news delivered gently. As the afternoon dragged on and the light shifted through the window, hope dwindled.

You were halfway through debating whether instant noodles counted as dinner when the door finally opened.

Keys rattled. A familiar sigh followed.

Then—

“Holy sh—”

You turned just in time to see Alistair standing in the doorway, a small chocolate cake clutched in his hands like it was a sacred artifact. His hair was a mess, his jacket half unzipped, and his expression somewhere between triumph and deep personal offense.

He stared at you. You stared at the cake.

He blinked. “Okay. Wow. You scared the hell out of me.”

“You’re… real,” you said weakly. “And that cake is real.”

He dropped his bag, walked in, and carefully set the cake on the table like it might disappear if handled wrong. Then he looked down at it and made a face. “I had to fight an old lady for that.”

You pushed yourself upright. “You what?”

“She was ruthless,” he said, pulling off his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “Elbows out, death grip on the display case. I swear she hissed at me.”

“You fought an old lady… over cake.”

“I fought an old lady over your cake,” he corrected. “And it was full. Absolutely packed. Finals season brings out something feral in people.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I can’t believe I fought an old lady over a damn cake. What the hell is it made of? Gold?”

You laughed—and then immediately regretted it, wincing and pressing a hand to your stomach.

Alistair noticed instantly.

“Hey,” he said, tone shifting as he crossed the room. “You’re still hurting, aren’t you?”

You nodded, shoulders slumping. “It’s bad today.”

“Shit,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. “I was hoping the cake would be enough.”

He gently rubbed your abdomen through the fabric of your pajama shirt, warm hands slow and careful. “Does this help at all?”

“A little,” you admitted. “Mostly it just reminds me that I’m not suffering alone.”

“That’s the plan,” he said quietly, then glanced back at the cake. “Okay. New strategy. You sit. Don’t move. Don’t even think about finals.”

“You’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” he said, standing. “But I’ll be right back. I’m grabbing medicine, heating pad—whatever the pharmacy clerk recommends while judging me silently.”

You reached out and caught his sleeve. “You already did enough.”

He softened, offering a small smile. “Yeah, well. You’re worth fighting old ladies for.”