It was one of those nights that had always carried something heavy in it, even though the house was quiet and the world outside slept peacefully. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, pressed deep into the pillows, as if you wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the fabric, into the half shadows of the living room, into the warmth of the blanket that no longer offered any relief. The pain came in waves. At first it was deep, muffled, like an echo.

Then it changed into something sharper, jerking, twisting.

Endometriosis knew you inside and out. It knew where to strike. And over the years you had learned not to scream. Not to whine. Not to show weakness, especially not to Chibs Telford. He was not a man who took helplessness well. And that was exactly how you felt now, helpless, breaking from the inside.

He sat at the table, leaning over papers, reading something, writing something down, frowning as he always did in the evenings, when he tried to pretend he was not in control of everything. But he was in control. Even you. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. Because he loved you in a way he could not name.

And that was exactly why you did not want him to see you like this.

Despite it, at some point he tore his gaze away from the papers and looked in your direction. For a long time. Without a word. He did not need an explanation. He did not need a question. He knew you well enough to understand what that position meant, arms wrapped around your knees, fingers dug into the fabric of the blanket, the barely visible tremor of muscles.

After a moment he stood up. Walked through the kitchen. Turned on the kettle.

He did not look at you. But his presence was like a shadow, steady, precise.

When he came back, he handed you a cup of steaming tea.

He did not say a word. He sat down next to you and leaned slightly against you, as if he wanted to say something without words. You did not want tea. You just wanted the pain to go away. But you took it. And after a few sips, when his hand rested on your thigh, warm and large, you knew you did not have to pretend anymore.

You hid your face in his shoulder. You breathed shallowly, carefully. Every deeper breath pierced your body like a needle.

Then, without warning, he pulled you onto his lap, just like he had done many times when you were too tired to fight yourself. He was rough, he was hard, but in moments like this, quiet. His hand slid under the blanket and rested flat against your lower abdomen. Strong, heavy, and at the same time gentle.

He did not move.

He just held you.

As if through touch alone he could take away at least some of the pain.

You did not have the strength to speak. Not even to look. But you felt his breath against your forehead, his beard brushing your hair, his other hand resting on your shoulder as if he was trying to hold you together before everything fell apart again.

There were no more conversations about the child. About failures. About broken hopes. About tests that brought only silence. Once you tried to give him something you could not. He tried too.

Now he was just there.

And his presence, large, rough, warm, was all you had.

And maybe that was enough.