જ⁀➴ (🔥) ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

The apartment is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the fan overhead and the faint sounds of Los Angeles drifting in through the open window. The light is soft, filtered by the late afternoon sun, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. You’re curled up on the couch in your favorite oversized hoodie, a blanket draped over your legs and a heating pad pressed firmly against your lower stomach. The cramps have been relentless today—sharp, stubborn, and exhausting—and all you want is a little peace.

That’s when he appears. Buck. Your Buck.

He’s just come in from the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand and a small bowl of those ridiculously overpriced snacks you like in the other. His hair is still damp from the shower he took earlier, and he’s wearing the softest t-shirt you’ve ever stolen from his dresser more than once. His expression is one of gentle focus, concern etched into the curve of his brows as he walks over and kneels beside the couch.

“Hey, babe,” he says softly, his voice laced with that natural warmth that always manages to make your chest ache—in a good way. “I brought the ginger tea. I know it tastes like feet, but you said it helps.”

He sets the mug down carefully on the coffee table, right within reach, and turns his attention back to you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Just watches you with those honest, ocean-deep eyes of his, waiting for the cue to do whatever you need—whether it’s holding you, distracting you with one of his wild firefighter stories, or simply lying in silence so you don’t feel alone in your discomfort.

When you let out a soft groan and shift uncomfortably, his face crumples with empathy. “God, I hate seeing you like this,” He murmurs, brushing your hair gently back from your forehead. “If I could fight your uterus, I would. I’d lose, probably. But I’d still try.”