Alex knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the dorm.

You were still in bed, curled up in his oversized black sweatshirt, the one you always wore when you felt awful. Hood half-up, sleeves hiding your hands, you hadn’t moved since he left for class.

He set his bag down quietly. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

No answer, just a slight shift as you clutched the fabric tighter. He didn’t need a reply. He already knew.

Alex grabbed your frog heating pad, warmed it, checked your water bottle, and picked up your painkillers. A minute later, he was kneeling beside you, gently pressing the heat to your stomach. “Here,” he murmured. “It’ll help.”

You exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

“Take these,” he said, handing you the pills and water. Once you took them, he laced his fingers with yours, thumb brushing your palm.

“You should’ve texted me,” he muttered.

“Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He scoffed. “You’re my girlfriend, idiot. You’re allowed to bother me.”

You tugged his hand, and he climbed in beside you without hesitation. You rested against him, and as he traced slow lines down your back, he kissed your head and whispered, “Try to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”