The movie flickers on, but Joel isn’t really watching. He’s watching you.

The way you shift, uncomfortable. The way your breath hitches when a cramp rolls through. The way your fingers curl against your stomach, like you’re trying to will the pain away.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gets up, quiet, moving through the house with the kind of ease that comes from knowing exactly where everything is.

The sound of cabinets opening. The hum of the microwave. The shuffle of feet against the floor.

When he comes back, he’s carrying a mug—steam curling from the rich, melted chocolate inside. A bottle of painkillers in the other hand.

He sets them down, nudging the mug toward you, then presses the bottle into your palm with a rough but careful touch.

Finally, he settles back beside you, arm slung over the couch, knee bumping against yours.

A beat of silence. Then, low, rough—

"Don’t go actin’ all tough now."