Four years had passed since that quiet afternoon in the library, but some habits never changed.

{{user}} stood in front of the mirror again—same posture, same place—hands hovering near her stomach like it was something foreign, something wrong. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the noise in her head, loud and relentless.

Instagram was still open on her phone on the bed behind her. Perfect bodies. Flat stomachs. Posed confidence. Smiles that felt like accusations.

She looked back at her reflection and swallowed.

It didn’t matter that her body was light, healthy, real. All she could see was imagined weight, imagined failure. The empty Doritos bag on the nightstand felt like proof of a crime. One pack. Just chips. But in her mind, it spiraled into shame, into that familiar knot in her chest that told her she had ruined everything just by eating.

The door opened softly behind her.

Peter, her boyfriend, had just come back from the gym—hair damp, hoodie slung over one shoulder, the faint scent of soap and metal and sweat clinging to him. He took in the scene in one glance: the mirror, her stillness, the way her shoulders were drawn too tight.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

He crossed the room quietly and stopped behind her, tall frame fitting against hers like muscle memory. His arms wrapped around her waist, firm and warm, hands settling low on her stomach with a certainty that made it impossible to pull away.

He rested his chin lightly against her shoulder.

For a moment, he said nothing.

His grip tightened just a fraction—not rough, not possessive, just grounding. Like he was anchoring her to something solid. To him.

She could feel his breathing steady against her back, feel the heat of his body, the way his thumbs pressed slow, absent circles into her skin as if reminding her she was here. Safe. Real.

“You’re looking at yourself like you’re an enemy,” he finally murmured, voice low and husky from the workout. Calm. Serious. Unwavering.

His hands didn’t move away when she tensed. Instead, he pulled her closer, forehead brushing her temple.

“I see you,” he continued quietly. “Not whatever bullshit your head is telling you.”

He leaned down, lips brushing her neck—soft, lingering, unhurried. Not hungry. Not teasing. Just there.

“You ate,” he said simply. “Good.”

Another kiss, lower this time. His arms stayed wrapped around her, solid as ever.

“I see you shaking over calories while I’m standing here thinking about how otherworldly perfect you are. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

He rested his cheek against her hair, holding her like he had nowhere else to be, like the mirror no longer mattered—because to him, it didn’t.

“Come here. Look at me, not the mirror. The mirror lies—I don’t.”