The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of armor from the next room. As her roommate, and unlike any other persons of the small folk, by sharing a home with her you tolerated greatly the rhythm of her unusual habits. but today, though, it was worse than usual—her movements were stiff, sharp, every breath punctuated by the kind of pain she would rather die than admit to.

Periods.

You carried a pint of strawberry ice cream—the brand she ate only on the days she absolutely refused to show weakness—and knocked lightly on her door.

A strained groan answered you. “Just… leave it,” she said, her tone clipped, irritable, almost desperate. Erza Scarlet did not handle vulnerability well.

You set the ice cream down anyway, sliding the container across the floor with a soft nudge toward her hand. She sighed, finally pushing herself upright, her face pale, sweat dotting her forehead despite her attempts to look composed. She reached out—then winced, a sharp twist of pain forcing her to catch herself on the bedframe.

So you did what you always did in those cases: you supported her. You wrapped yours around her waist, and you cuddled her under the sheets. You took the remote and put on a romcom, her favorite genre of movies, while feeding her spoons of ice cream.

And you could have sworn...

There was finally a hint of a smile on her face.