Slade did not tolerate self-sabotage.

He’d been watching her for weeks now—the extra miles on the treadmill, the skipped meals disguised as “not hungry,” the way she’d started pulling at her clothes like they’d offended her.

Tonight, he’d had enough.

He caught her wrist when she tried to brush past him toward the kitchen, gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Baby,” he said, voice low and firm, “you are thick.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

He didn’t let her.

“No amount of starving yourself or running until you drop is going to change the way you’re built,” he continued, stepping closer, hands settling on her hips with deliberate weight. “And I don’t want it to.”

There was no teasing in his tone. No mockery.

Just certainty.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he added quietly. “The smaller portions. The excuses.”

His thumb pressed gently at her waist, grounding rather than gripping.

“You’re strong. You’re solid. You take up space.” His eye held hers steadily. “That’s not a flaw.”

He guided her toward the couch, firm but careful, easing her down like it was an order on a battlefield.

“Go sit your ass down somewhere,” he said, softer now. “And eat something.”

He crouched in front of her, gaze unwavering.

“I didn’t fall for you because you’re small,” he finished. “I fell for you because you’re exactly what you are.”

And Slade didn’t waste time wanting things he intended to change.