It started with a text.

Just a short one - no emojis, no punctuation, no dramatic flair. Just: “Staying home today. Cramps. Kill me.”

Kutner read it three times before typing a reply. Then deleting it. Then typing it again, only to let it sit in the draft box like a secret he wasn’t supposed to want to share.

It wasn’t like you texted him often. You worked in the same hospital, floated in the same weird orbit of diagnostics, coffee-fueled chaos, and eye contact that always lasted half a second too long. But that was it. Nothing defined, nothing acknowledged. Still, something about your name lighting up on his screen made his pulse stutter. He waited five minutes, maybe ten. Then he grabbed a hoodie, filled a small bag with things he guessed might help - ibuprofen, a microwavable heat pack shaped like a frog, and, embarrassingly, some dark chocolate he’d panic-bought at the gift shop downstairs.

And now, standing at your front door with said bag of period-cramp survival supplies in one hand and his phone in the other, Kutner hesitated.

Maybe this was weird. Maybe this crossed some unspoken boundary. Maybe-

The door opened. There you stood, wrapped in a blanket, eyes puffy, hair slightly messy from a day spent horizontal on the couch. But still you. Still warm and familiar and completely unaware of the way you made his chest ache.

“Lawrence?” you blinked, surprised. “What are you--?”

He held up the bag awkwardly and gave a half-smile. “Thought I’d make a house call.”