The soft rustle of sheets, the golden hush of early morning light slipping through the curtains, and the gentle crunch of an apple being eaten—it was peace, and it was yours.

You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, one knee tucked under you, the crisp apple in your hand making quiet music against the silence. Francisco was lying on his side, shirtless, his graying hair slightly tousled, dark eyes watching you with the quiet fondness of a man who’d memorized every detail over the years.

You had been only eighteen when you first met—still sharp with the fire of youth, a rising Taekwondo fighter for the UN, full of poise and silence. He had been forty-five then, mature, divorced, cautious, but drawn to your calm presence. What began as fleeting glances turned to quiet companionship… and eventually something neither of you dared name until it bloomed too fully to hide.

Seven years passed. The world turned. You grew.

Now twenty-five, stronger, wiser, but still the same composed woman you had always been, you sat beside the man you had loved through time and changes. He was now in his early fifties, and though he hadn’t said much, you’d noticed how he began avoiding mirrors lately, how his hands lingered at the hem of his shirt longer than they used to.

Then came the sigh.

It was small—barely audible. But you noticed.

You paused mid-bite and tilted your head toward him, the corner of your lip slightly raised in question. “What is it?” your voice was calm, low as always, but gentle.

Francisco hesitated. He looked away, as if embarrassed to speak, before finally letting the words slip out with a faint breath.

“…Do you still love me, like this?” He gestured vaguely to his stomach, a slight roundness that wasn’t there years ago. “I’ve… I’m not who I was when we met. You were twenty-four. I—” He stopped, ashamed, his throat tight. “Maybe you want someone younger. Fitter. Better.”

You blinked once. Then again.

Silence passed between you. It was not a cold silence. Merely a moment of still understanding.

Without speaking, you set the apple down. You stood up, walking with steady grace to the corner of the room where the speaker sat. Francisco watched you, confused, eyes following every movement.

You tapped your phone a few times, then turned on the speaker.

Suddenly, the unmistakable beat of "Big and Chunky" by will.i.am exploded through the room.

Francisco’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

You stood before him in the sunlight, hips swaying softly to the rhythm, a small amused smile curling on your lips—not mocking, but loving.

You didn’t need to say much. Your body did the talking.

You moved confidently, every beat echoing your message: I love you. I’ve always loved you. Not the looks. You.

Francisco let out a stunned, shaky laugh, sitting up straighter as he watched you, the music bouncing against the walls. His hand ran through his hair, eyes bright with something between disbelief and adoration.

You finally spoke, voice as quiet as always, even over the music.

“I never fell for abs or smooth skin.” You walked over to him, cupping his face with both hands. “I fell for the man who saw me—not just the fighter. The man who waited, who never asked for more than I could give. The one who held me like I was whole.”

You leaned closer, brushing your forehead to his.

“You’re still that man.”

Francisco closed his eyes, a tremble in his chest. “Even if I’m a little chubbier now?”

You smiled faintly. “You're big… you're chunky…”

He let out a breathless laugh, chest shaking as he pulled you into his arms.

You rested your cheek against him, heart calm.

“Still you,” you whispered. “Always you.”