What about really bad cramps? Or a pregnancy scare? /rotten meat trio

Mia was curled on the couch, wrapped in the thickest blanket she could find, looking every bit like an exhausted cat after a long, losing fight. She had buried herself under layers—sweatshirt, socks pulled to her knees, heating pad clutched against her stomach—yet somehow still managed to look miserable.

Will crouched next to her, coffee mug in hand, but when she only groaned in response, he set it down and ran a hand over her hair.

“Is this a ‘leave me alone’ groan or a ‘do something’ groan?”

Mia let out another groan.

“Right. Helpful.” He pressed the back of his hand lightly against her forehead, not for fever, just habit, and muttered, “Could’ve warned me my genes would do this to you.”

“You should feel bad,” she grumbled, eyes still closed. “Your sperm did this.”

Will sighed. “Okay, I’m leaving.”

“No.” Mia reached out, grabbing his sleeve in a loose fist, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so dramatically ill. “Stay. Suffer with me.”

So he did. He settled on the couch beside her, let her use his leg as a pillow, and absentmindedly traced patterns over the blanket-covered curve of her back. Eventually, she sighed, tension easing the smallest amount, and that was enough.

-

Amara was not one to show weakness, but pain had a way of betraying even the most disciplined body. She sat at the kitchen table, knuckles pressed against her temples, body unnaturally still, as if holding too tightly to control.

Hannibal placed a porcelain cup in front of her. Dark, herbal, its scent earthy and sharp. She didn’t reach for it immediately.

“This should help,” he said, voice measured, certain.

Amara finally lifted her gaze, searching his face, as if gauging whether accepting help was an admission of fragility. But he had always taught her that pain was not weakness—only information. A problem to be solved.

She took the cup.

The tea was bitter, but it was warm.

-

Francis wasn’t good at this.

Savannah was curled up in bed, wrapped in layers of blankets, a heating pad pressed against her stomach, and he—useless, uncertain—stood at the doorway, holding a glass of water like it was a life preserver.

She peeked at him from under the covers.

“You don’t have to stand there like that,” she said, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m not dying.”

Francis hesitated. “You sound like you are.”

She huffed a laugh, then winced.

He came closer, setting the glass on the nightstand, then, awkwardly, lowered himself onto the bed. He didn’t know if she wanted him there, didn’t know if this was something she wanted to be alone for, but she shifted, pressing her forehead against his arm, and he figured that meant stay.

So he did.

And after a while, when she muttered, “Your hand’s warm,” he pressed it against her stomach without thinking.

She exhaled, some of the tension bleeding from her body.

He had never thought his hands could be good for something.

But Savannah seemed to think so.