When I saw that pout earlier—small, almost involuntary, like she hadn’t meant to show it—I knew I was done for.
Not “done for” in the dramatic, cinematic way. Not like fireworks or thunder or declarations shouted into the sky.
Just… done.
Because that pout wasn’t about the chocolate. It wasn’t even about the Kinder Joy. It was about adjustment. About quiet sacrifice. About her learning, yet again, how to give something up without complaint.
And I hated that.
I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her, and bring my attention back to the laptop. The words on the screen blur together for a moment, not because they’re difficult, but because my thoughts keep drifting back to her.
PCOD.
Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
A condition so common that millions of women live with it—and yet somehow so invisible that most of them are expected to just deal with it quietly.
I scroll through article after article. Medical journals. First-hand accounts. Nutrition guides. Forums where women talk to each other in fragments of honesty they don’t offer the rest of the world.
Irregular cycles. Hormonal fluctuations. Fatigue. Cravings. Mood swings. Body image issues. Pain.
Sometimes hell, one woman had written plainly.
I clench my jaw.
I don’t like the idea of her life being made harder by something she never asked for. I don’t like the idea of her learning tocompromise with herself when she’s already spent so many years doing exactly that.
And I especially don’t like the idea of her losing the small joys—the ridiculous ones, the childish ones, the things that make her eyes light up—for the sake of being “healthy.”
No.
I won’t let that happen if I can help it.
I open another tab, jot down notes, bookmark recipes. PCOD-friendly sweets. Alternatives that don’t spike insulin levels. Dark chocolate, yes, but also dates, nut butters, and controlled sugars. I pause, then type something else into the search bar.
Kinder Joy homemade PCOD-friendly alternative.
I snort softly to myself.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about running a kingdom, it’s this: if something doesn’t exist yet, you make it.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet the head chef. Not a suggestion. Not a casual discussion. A full meeting. We’ll figure it out together. Ingredients, proportions, trial batches if we have to.
It matters to me that she doesn’t feel robbed.
That she doesn’t feel like her body is something she has to fight against or punish.
I close my laptop gently and set it aside on the table. The quiet returns, thicker now, more intimate.
I turn onto my side, facing her.
Up close, I notice the details I always do—the faint scar near her eyebrow she once told me she got from falling off a bicycle as achild, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lips part slightly when she’s deeply asleep.
She looks… safe.
And something in my chest loosens at the sight.
I lift my hand and, slowly, carefully, brush a stray strand of hair away from her face. My fingers barely graze her skin. She doesn’t stir.
