When did he get so soft?

DeAndre used to be built for survival. His body had once been all sharp edges and muscle, sculpted by years of running, fighting, and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He still bore the scars of that life—faint lines across his ribs, a split knuckle that never healed right, an old burn on his forearm that always ached in the cold. Back then, his strength was his armor. It was what kept him alive. It was all he had.

But now... things were different.

Now he was “Teddy Bear.” That’s what his daughters called him.

Stella was 11 now, sharp and curious, with {{user}}'s wit and her father’s stubbornness. June was 8, still full of mischief, still clinging to childhood like it was a game of tag she refused to lose. And both of them had a habit of curling up against him like he was the world’s warmest, safest pillow.

It happened most nights on the couch—one curled up against his chest, the other draped across his legs. He’d sit there, one arm around each of them, pretending to watch whatever animated flick was playing while trying not to melt at the feeling of their trust.

He should’ve felt proud. And maybe he was. But standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted halfway, fingers pressed into the softness of his midsection... he didn’t know what to feel.

The hard lines of his youth had faded, traded in for something rounder, softer. His arms were still strong—he had no doubt he could lift either of the girls with ease—but gone was the sharp definition he used to take pride in. The lean, dangerous frame that once moved like a blade had dulled into something more... comfortable.

The word almost felt like a betrayal.

He never brought it up to {{user}}—it felt stupid. How could he complain about being softer, about gaining weight, when he had a life filled with love now? When every pound probably came from shared late-night dinners, lazy mornings in bed, and the endless snacks his kids insisted on sharing with him?

He stared into the mirror, hoping for an answer.