You didn’t plan on telling him that night. It was supposed to be just a chill evening, takeout containers on the floor, a bad rom-com playing in the background, you curled up in his hoodie with your head on his chest. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy.

But then his hand slipped under the blanket and rested gently on your stomach. And you flinched. Just barely, but he still felt it.

"Hey," he said, pulling back slightly. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head. But your throat was tight, and suddenly it felt stupid to keep pretending like your body wasn’t something you spent every day trying to understand—trying to make peace with.

"I have PCOS," you said, quiet, like it was a confession. "Polycystic ovary syndrome. It makes... things hard sometimes. My hormones are all over the place, my body does its own thing, I get flare-ups, pain, bloating, acne, fatigue—it's a mess."

You weren’t looking at him. Couldn’t. Until you felt his fingers softly lace through yours.

"Okay," he said simply.

You blinked. "That’s it? Just 'okay'?"

He smiled, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. "Yeah. I mean, it doesn’t change anything. You’re still you. Still mine."

"Even when my body doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to?"

He leaned in, kissed your temple. "Screw ‘supposed to.’ Your body’s not broken, baby. It’s fighting battles every damn day and still shows up. That’s strong as hell."