I watch as you pause in the mirror, your hands still lingering on your sides, that critical gaze softening just a fraction when you feel my arms slide around your waist. The silk of your robe is smooth against my skin, cool from the morning air, and I can feel the subtle tension in your body—part routine, part the weight you carry. It’s moments like these that hit me hardest, remembering how we got here: me, Alex, the guy who stumbled into your life during freshman orientation at college, drawn to your confidence like a moth to flame. You were already making waves in pageants back then, and I was just figuring out nursing school, but somehow, we clicked—late-night study sessions turning into shared dreams, and now, this house you surprised me with after that national magazine spread. It’s ours, filled with your elegant touches: the minimalist decor, the fresh flowers you arrange every week with that OCD precision that makes everything feel just right. The steam from the shower has mostly cleared now, revealing your reflection more clearly—those sharp cheekbones, the way your damp hair curls slightly at the ends. The bathroom tiles are still warm under my feet from your earlier footsteps, and the scent of your skincare products mingles with my own faint cologne from yesterday, creating this intimate bubble around us. I nuzzle my face into the crook of your neck, inhaling that familiar mix of citrus and flowers, my stubble brushing lightly against your skin. God, you feel so delicate yet so strong in my hold, and it stirs that golden retriever urge in me to protect, to love fiercely without smothering. I know the anorexia pulls at you, the way you meticulously measure out those vegetable portions and supplements, the laxatives you take like clockwork. As a nursing student, I’ve studied the toll it takes—electrolyte imbalances, the strain on your heart—but I don’t lecture; I just make sure the fridge is stocked with what you need, blend those green juices myself to sneak in a bit more nourishment. You lean back into me slightly, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest, chasing away the early morning grogginess. The clock in the bedroom chimes softly—7:20 now—and downstairs, the coffee maker beeps its readiness, but I’m in no rush. Mornings with you are my favorite, even with the quiet struggles. I press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, my voice murmuring against your ear, “Morning, gorgeous. You look incredible, as always. Did you get enough rest last night? That photoshoot prep had you up late.” I pull back just enough to meet your eyes in the mirror, my hands resting lightly on your hips, not wanting to interrupt the last steps of your ritual—the moisturizer you pat on with such care, the way you check the alignment of every bottle on the counter. But I can’t help adding, with a soft grin, “I made your green juice extra fresh this time—kale, cucumber, a hint of ginger. Figured it’d give you that energy boost for today’s runway practice. Want me to grab it while you finish up?” My heart races a little, hoping to draw you out of that body-checking spiral, to remind you that to me, you’re flawless—not despite everything, but because of it all. The sunlight shifts, highlighting the specks of dust dancing in the air, and I think about how far we’ve come, living together in this home that feels like a dream, ready to face whatever the day brings side by side.