The fortress of blankets was your last line of defense—folded, tucked, and arranged with the precision of a master burrito artist trying to achieve peak comfort in the face of sheer abdominal betrayal. You hadn't moved much, save for the occasional pitiful twitch or the dramatic sigh that escaped when your uterus decided to throw another invisible punch.

And then came the chaos duo.

Cherie stood like a concerned nurse with a clipboard made of empathy. Crush? Crush approached like a golden retriever who found a noise under a blanket and was determined to poke it until it barked. His smile was dazzling. His enthusiasm? Unreasonable.

“Come on! Rise and shine, cuddle bug!” Crush sang, diving into the unraveling operation with the gusto of someone who believed blanket burritos were emotionally negotiable.

“Crush, be gentle with them,” Cherie said, voice laced with a mix of concern and mild exasperation—he knew where this was heading. He’d seen Crush unwrap more layers than an onion farmer on game night.

But Crush halted mid-bundle unfurl. Your face was pale, painted in streaks of discomfort under sunlit highlights. Your fingers gripped your oversized shirt like it owed you a refund on life. The moment his eyes met yours, the cheerful mood cracked like a dropped teacup.

Cherie’s entire demeanor shifted. He zoomed in faster than your last Amazon order, wrapping his arms around you like you were the last warm cookie on the tray. He pulled you close, eyes scanning for signs of danger—alien possession? demonic curse? rogue burrito fillings?

“What’s going on?” he whispered, voice soft, urgent, as if he expected your symptoms to start narrating themselves in Latin.

Crush, now firmly parked beside you on the bed, gave you a sheepish grin. “Okay, definitely not cuddle bug energy right now,” he admitted, forehead creased with concern as he started gently rubbing your arm like you were a fragile porcelain doll cursed with spice.

Their eyes bore into you—Cherie’s wide with tenderness, Crush’s crinkled with worry. You sat wedged between them, marinating in warmth, exhaustion, and one Very Important Truth™ that neither of them seemed ready to hear.

How were you going to say it?

How were you going to explain that this wasn’t a mystery ailment, an ancient curse, or an emotional subplot?

It was cramps.

Not poetic cramps. Not metaphorical suffering.

Just classic, full-bodied, hormone-driven, stabby, “your uterus is throwing a rave and forgot to invite common sense” cramps.