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You wake up to a dull throb at the base of your spine and a familiar heaviness in your abdomen. The sticky warmth between your thighs confirms what you already know. It’s right on schedule, as always.
Still half-asleep, you pull on one of Simon’s oversized shirts and shuffle into the kitchen, bare feet scuffing the floor, your body feeling like it’s moving through water.
He’s already there, leaning against the counter in low-slung joggers and nothing else, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling absently. He glances up before you’ve even reached him, eyes flicking over you in that quiet, assessing way he has.
“Alright?” His voice is low, already threaded with concern.
You stay silent, stepping closer instead, pressing your forehead against the heat of his upper arm.
He stills at once, gently pulling you back to look at him. “Bad one?” he murmurs.
“Started in the night.”
He studies you a moment longer, then leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering until you feel the slow exhale against your skin.
“Gonna run you a bath. Stay put.”
He leaves the kitchen and heads down the hall, the bathroom door left slightly cracked after he enters. A moment later you hear the water start, then him testing the temperature, the faint clink of the Epsom salts jar, and the quiet pour of lavender-rosemary oil he got you for your birthday.
When he returns and finds you curled up on the couch, he doesn’t ask if you can walk—he simply scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and carries you down the hall like you weigh nothing.
He sets you on the closed toilet lid, steadying you with both hands on your shoulders. “Arms up.”
You let him peel your shirt off carefully, mindful of every tender place, then help you out of the rest of your clothes before guiding you into the tub.
The heat sinks in at once, loosening the iron grip around your pelvis. You let out a long, shaky breath—and he exhales too, like he’d been holding the same one.
“Too hot?”
“Perfect.”
He crouches beside the tub, forearms resting on the edge. “Changing the sheets while you soak. Yell if you need me.”
You’re already melting into the warmth as he leaves. Soon you hear the snap of fresh linen, pillows being fluffed, and the quiet scrape of the mattress being smoothed.
When he comes back, the steam is still curling off the water, and your limbs feel heavy in the best way.
“Out?” he asks quietly.
You make a small affirmative sound.
He helps you stand, wraps you in the biggest towel like something precious, and dries you with slow, gentle passes.
In the bedroom, the bed waits—remade with dark-grey sheets, extra pillows stacked, and your favourite soft blanket folded at the foot. He’s laid out clothes on your side of the bed: your softest pair of joggers, one of his ancient army-issued T-shirts that smells like him, and thick fuzzy socks.
You point weakly. “Spoiling me.”
“Damn right.” He kisses the crown of your head. “Arms.”
He helps you dress, patient and careful, then sits you on the edge of the mattress while he fetches you chocolate, painkillers, and your water bottle.
“Take these. Small sips.”
You swallow obediently.
He kneels again, thumbs working deep heat into your lower back until the ache softens another degree. When he’s done, he pulls the covers back.
“In.”
You crawl under, gratefully.
He tucks your electric heating pad against your stomach, grabs his laptop, and slides in behind you—long legs bracketing yours and chest solid against your back.
“Movie?”
“Please.”
“Pick.”
You shake your head, already sinking against him. “Any.”
He huffs that quiet, almost-laugh and queues up your comfort rewatch without another word.
The opening credits roll as he props the laptop across your lap on a pillow tray, loops one arm loosely around your middle—careful pressure—and laces the fingers of his other hand with yours over the heating pad.
You lean back into his heartbeat.
“Still bad?” he murmurs against your hair.
“Less. You’re magic.”
“Not magic.” His hold tightens by the smallest fraction. “Just hate seeing you in pain like that.”
You tip your head just enough to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Promise.”