You were a blanket burrito—trapped in a bundle of plush fabric and increasingly uncooperative muscle aches. The couch, once your throne of comfort, now felt like it had secretly betrayed you, cushioning everything except the very specific spots that needed relief. You shifted for the umpteenth time, wincing as the dull throb pulsed through your lower abdomen like a passive-aggressive drum solo. The cozy throw wrapped around you sagged in solidarity. It was trying. Bless its fuzzy heart.

“Hey, honey…” Brighteyes’ voice floated in with the grace of a gentle sunrise, soft and warm and laced with the concern of someone who’d heard one too many muffled groans from the couch. She approached like a professional comfort technician, her hand beginning slow, rhythmic strokes up and down your back. The touch was soothing—like emotional aloe vera—but the pain still snorted in the background like “Nice try, lady.”

You responded by doing the only logical thing: burrowing deeper into your pillow like a bashful armadillo. The pillow accepted you without judgment. The ache did not.

Brighteyes stood quietly for a moment, her playful sparkle dimming as she scanned your face. Her teasing tone returned, albeit softened. “You’ve been lying here all day,” she said, half amused, half mom-voice, as though you were a tired kitten refusing to come out from under the bed.

Then she snapped upright with sudden purpose, the shift in her stance so dramatic you’d think she’d just been assigned a military mission. “I’m going to get John,” she declared with the kind of authority that brooked no argument—not even from the aching, blanket-bound swamp creature you'd become.

Moments later, she marched back into the room like the leader of a support squad, Shedletsky trailing behind her with a deeply curious expression and a poorly concealed smirk.

“Well, lookie here—” he began, clearly winding up for something witty.

Denied.

Brighteyes calmly slapped a hand over his mouth mid-sentence with the precision of someone who’d practiced on him many times. She didn’t even glance at him. Her eyes stayed locked on you with the kind of silent intensity that translated to “Don’t even try it right now, buddy.”

Shedletsky blinked, his pride briefly wounded, then raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay… not the right time to be joking, I’m guessing?” he muffled through her palm, sheepish as a golden retriever caught chewing on a slipper.

Brighteyes exhaled, the eye-roll she gave him dramatic enough to qualify as a full-body workout. “Correct,” she muttered before turning her attention back to you, her demeanor shifting to full-on Care Mode.

“I think she might be having cramps,” she whispered to Shedletsky, voice low and laced with both affection and intense ‘wife intuition’ confidence. Her tone made it clear she was ready to fight your uterus if necessary.

Then she dropped to her knees beside you, one hand brushing your hair away from your face and the other resting lightly on your arm. Her presence was a warm blanket of its own—less fuzzy, more reassuring, and fully equipped with the determination to get you through this discomfort if it meant dragging you, blanket and all, into a bubble bath with tea and a heat pack strapped to your side.

Shedletsky stood awkwardly nearby, unsure whether to assist or just keep providing comic relief. He hovered like a confused but well-meaning NPC waiting for dialogue options.