Yesterday had been exactly what the club needed: sun, whiskey, and the kind of easy camaraderie that only comes when the Reaper patches are traded for flannel and swim trunks for a few days. The Big Bear annual vacation was in full swing, a ritual that meant SAMCRO got to breathe without looking over their shoulders for every passing cruiser. Bobby had been in rare form, relaxed enough to actually enjoy a round of cards without a club crisis interrupting the hand. He had spent most of yesterday with his arm draped around you, his thumb tracing idle circles against your hip while the rest of the guys loud mouthed their way through a barbecue. For Bobby, this year felt different. Nearing a year together, you weren't just some girl he was seeing; you were the quiet harbor he came home to. He felt steady. He felt like the man he wanted to be for you.

But this morning, the air felt different.

The breakfast spread at the rental lodge was the usual controlled chaos. Tig was already making something crude about the sausage quality, and Jax and Chibs were deep in conversation about some bike modifications near the window. Bobby sat at the table, the familiar weight of his cut draped over the back of his chair, nursing a coffee and watching you. He noticed the way you flinched when you shifted in your seat, the way you kept your hand pressed flat against your lower abdomen. You were paler than usual, picking at your food like you couldn't muster the appetite for it. When he reached under the table to squeeze your knee, he felt you tense up slightly before relaxing into his touch.

"You good, babe?" he asked quietly, his voice dropping into that low, warm register reserved just for you.

He wanted to believe you when you gave him a fake smille and told him you were fine, he really did, but something in his gut told him you were holding something back.

By noon, the breakfast chatter had dissolved into individual activities, and that was when Bobby noticed you had vanished. He asked Juice where you'd gone, but the kid just shrugged, too busy focused on a game of pool. A prickle of concern settled in Bobby's chest. He knew you; he knew the way you sometimes retreated into yourself when you weren't feeling one hundred percent. He found himself pushing aside the plans to join Happy on a fishing trip, instead heading up the stairs to the room you shared.

When he pushed the door open, the curtains were drawn tight against the mountain sun, plunging the room into a soft, warm dimness. You were curled in a tight ball beneath the duvet, your back to the door, looking small and fragile against the pillows.

"Hey," he murmured, kicking the door shut behind him. He moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down carefully so as not to jostle you. "You didn't come down for the midday meal. You feeling sick?"

The vulnerability in your shoulders as you slowly turned to face him broke something inside him. When he saw the pained expression on your face and the way you curled closer to yourself at the slightest movement, the pieces clicked. He remembered the last time years ago, before he'd spent so long in the bachelor trenches of the club and the way it affected you.

"Oh, honey," he whispered, his hand finding your hair, smoothing it back from your forehead with unexpected tenderness. "You've got your monthly shit going on, don't you? Why didn't you just tell me?"

He felt a pang of guilt. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. "Shit, sweetheart, you don't gotta hide that from me. I'm not gonna think you're gross. I'm here to take care of you." He leaned down, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheek. "Just stay put. Don't move. I'm gonna get you whatever you need."

Twenty minutes later, Bobby was standing in the middle of a brightly lit supermarket somewhere in the mountains, feeling more out of his element than he ever had during a tense negotiation with the Mayans. The pharmacy aisle felt like a labyrinth designed specifically to humiliate him. He stood frozen before a wall of brightly colored cardboard boxes, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, looking like he was trying to solve a complex tactical problem.

He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen as he took a breath, trying to shake off the feeling of being a complete outsider to the basic reality of being a woman. He hated feeling useless. He wanted to be the provider, the rock, but right now he felt like an old man lost in a foreign country.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand beside you.

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[New Message from Bobby Bear:] 'Hey sweetheart. I'm in the aisle. I don't know shit. There are like fifty different types of these... things. Do you need the ones with wings? Or without? Are wings better?'

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A few seconds passed before another text popped up.

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[New Message from Bobby Bear:] 'Also, I found the tampons. But there's colors. Pink? Green? Violet? What does the color mean? Is one more... stronger than the other? Pretty sure I'm failing a test here.*

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He paused, staring at a box labeled 'Super Plus' and another labeled 'Regular,' feeling the heat rise in his neck. He remembered how you used to look at him when you were comfortable, the effortless confidence you had. Being older, being married to the club for so long, he felt like he'd missed a lifetime of understanding.

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[New Message from Bobby Bear:] 'Jesus, I'm standing here like an idiot. Be honest with me what size are we talking? Do I need the big ones or the small ones? Like... what's the scale here? I don't want to bring you the wrong shit and make it worse. Just text me the specifics so I can get out of here and come back to you. Love you.*

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