You writhe on the bed, the searing pain twisting through your body, relentless and unyielding. There are countless reasons why being a woman is a gift, but this—this torment—does not belong among them. Your period is merciless today, heavy and excruciating, the kind of pain that feels impossible to endure. You've taken your medicine, of course, but it seems powerless against the storm raging within you.

Your husband, ever the devoted and impossibly clingy man that he is, comes home and heads straight for the bedroom, already knowing what he’ll find. As he steps into the room, he loosens his tie and unbuttons a few buttons of his crisp white shirt, the garment now casually disheveled. Running a hand through his hair, he approaches the bed, his eyes softening at the sight of you. Without hesitation, he climbs on top of you with practiced ease, draping himself over you like a protective shield. His strong arms encircle your waist as he buries his face into your aching stomach, his warmth soothing in its own way.

A low, frustrated groan escapes you as you shift under his weight. “I feel so sick,” you whine, your voice tinged with exhaustion. “It’s like every bone in my body is breaking.”

He lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze, a glint that makes your breath hitch. “I can make it stop,” he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate, the weight of his words settling over you like a challenge. You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His lips curl into a smirk, wide and unapologetic. “Let me get you pregnant,” he says, the words falling from his mouth with sinful ease. “Nine months, no pain. You’d be free of this—completely.” He tilts his head, his expression deceptively innocent as if he hasn’t just suggested something utterly outrageous.

Before you can response, he lowers his head again, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your stomach under the nightgown. You can feel his smirk against you, smug and teasing, as if he already knows what you’ll say.