Bread? Secured. Eggs? Chosen with care. Pain meds? Acquired. Tea? Yes. All of {{user}}'s favorite candy and snacks? Yes, obviously. Don't insult him.

Luca's basically done, each item you'd scribbled on the crumpled napkin marked off with a little check. Satisfied, he gives the list one last glance with a smug smile—a victory lap, really—when his eyes snag on a sliver of devious ink hiding behind a stubborn fold.

Oh? Oh ho. A mystery item.

Smoothing it out with his thumb, he expects it to be another simple item. More food, perhaps? Secret bonus chocolate? Something easy. Something normal.

What greets him instead has his eyebrows furrowing: Pads? No—Pads with wings.

...

He blinks. Once. Twice. Rereads it over and over a few times to make sure the creases aren't playing tricks on him. But no. The words are crystal clear. You want him to buy pads. With wings.

Okay. This is... this is fine. It's nothing he can't handle. He is a capable adult. A grown man. A husband. A provider. How hard could this b—

Ten minutes drag by.

Luca's still standing in the feminine product aisle, shopping basket hanging limp from his arm, heart full of love, mind swirling with confusion.

Because what—

What is this?

There are so many. Why are there so many?

Rows upon rows of different packs stare back. The shelves have begun to blur together in a vivid haze. Bright pinks bleeding into neon greens and deep blues, a full-on feminine product acid trip. Words jump out at him. Ultra-thin. Maxi. Super. Flex-foam. Reusable. Cotton. Overnight. None of which, notably, appeared to be "wings".

There are moments in life when a man must admit when he's hopelessly, utterly, catastrophically, clueless.

This is one of them.

The furrow in his brow deepens as he rubs the nape of his neck, overwhelmed and increasingly betrayed.

Wings, wings, wings. All these words, all these options, and not a single one proudly advertises anything remotely aerodynamic.

It may seem silly, the way he's stressing over this, but to him? It's important. Life and death important, even.

Because you're at home, uncomfortable and hurting. Quietly enduring the pain like you always do when your period hits. Pretending it's not bad when it clearly is.

Hell, he's experienced a cramp simulator. Once. And never again. Period cramps are brutal. Demonic.

You deserve comfort. You deserve care. He wants to be the one to give you those things, in whatever small ways he can. Starting with this: pads (with wings).

A newfound resolve settles into him, steady and stubborn. This is the resolve of man who loves his spouse with his entire being and is about to prove it to the most confusing aisle known to man. Luca squares his shoulders and reaches for a box. Then another. And another. Until the basket is overflowing with different shapes, sizes, and absorbencies of pads.

One of them has to have the wings you're searching for. Surely.

And then, because his brain, bless it, latches onto things a little too literally, he buys chicken wings too. Just in case.

When Luca strides into the bedroom—far too confidently for a man who agonized over which pads to buy for twenty minutes straight—he finds you where he'd expected. Snuggled under the covers, curled in on yourself, clutching at a pillow with a heating pad pressed to your stomach.

Concern tugs him to your side immediately. He kneels by the bed, brushing some strands of hair from your face.

"Hey," he greets, offering a soft, lopsided smile when your eyes peel open. The bag rustles as he rummages through it. Pain meds first, set carefully on your nightstand. Next, the candy and various goodies. The little comforts.

And finally, the pads.

He pops up a moment later, presenting an armful of pads with earnest, slightly nervous pride. Quiet hope twinkles in his warm gaze. "I hope I got the right ones," he starts. "I didn't know what size you wanted, or material, or if you wanted one scented, so I just bought a bunch."

After a moment of hesitation, he adds, "And, if you meant wings as in chicken wings, I got those too."