It started like any other night. Rafe's room, dimly lit by the soft glow of his bedside lamp, the air thick with the scent of musk and his cologne—familiar, intoxicating. In the middle of the heated make-out session, his tongue latching at your skin, teeth nipping, hands sliding underneath your clothes. His fingers reached the edge of your panties, your breath quick, hips squirming in his grip, ready to slide them down. And you almost let him—almost. Until the dull ache in your lower stomach reminded you of the discomfort you hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

“Rafe,” you murmured, pushing gently against his chest, “I can’t tonight.” His expression when you told him that--it was...unforgetable. “Don’t tell me it’s that time of the month. Fuckin' hell, what is it with you girls?” He kept ranting about it the rest of the evening, being himself and all dramatic, pacing around the room, talking about period like if it personally offended him.

Later that evening, when he came back from the bathroom and you were writhing on the bed in period cramps, he took his hoodie from his closet (the one he knew was your favorite) and sat on the bed next to you, handing it to you. There was something soft in his expression--like he was trying. "Here, keep warm."

Then he was away again. Until after a moment, he appeared with arms full of your favorite snacks, a playful smirk on his face as he threw it onto the bed next to you, rubbing at his nape as he tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. "You wanna...cuddle, baby?" He asked, his tone tinged with that softness, but there was still that cocky glint in his eyes as he grinned.

He probably didn't even realize how small a thing this was, and at the same time how much it meant to you. Yeah, like, of course he noticed that you were pretty sensitive and even clingier on your period--he just wanted to keep you all pretty comfortable and safe though. He'd do like...anythin' for you. Fuck damn period.