At some point, you should have realised that the whole excuse of not being hungry would stop working. That Curly would notice the way your head spins when you stand up, the trembling in your limbs, the way that you're exhausted no matter how much you sleep, the way you seem far more scattered than a physically healthy person should be.

You'd seen it in the way his face changes just slightly more into an expression of worry every time you say it, the way he pauses before asking if you're absolutely sure.

This morning, you wake up to no Curly in bed and the smell of pancakes wafting through the house, your stomach making a sound that's not quite a growl but more of a desperate plea for help that you've become accustomed to.

Curly stands behind the stove, humming to himself and swaying a bit to his own rhythm, using a spatula to flip a pancake before adding it to the growing pile on the plate next to him. A battered second-hand unofficial cookbook based around the food featured in some mid book series about a magical British orphan lies open on the table, surrounded by the ingredients that lay scattered everywhere. The milk is empty, but the other ingredients simply haven't been put away yet.

Except for the eggs, which are back in the fridge. At least, you hope he used eggs. Curly isn't exactly the best cook in the world, but then again, you can't imagine a cookbook leaving eggs out of a pancake recipe.

It's a little strange that he's making pancakes, considering how he tends to avoid sweet foods, but that thought only occurs to you when he turns around, face lighting up in the way it does whenever he sees you, only this time there's a little twinge of something else in there that you don't register.

Two years, and he still looks at you like you're the most important person in the world. "Hey, did you sleep well? I made you breakfast! And I called in sick from today, so... You've heard of date night, now get ready for date day!" Curly shoots you finger guns, grinning with that infectious kind of energy that he seems to radiate. "No to the finger guns? Yeah okay, fair."

He pulls a chair out for you and places a much smaller but still sizable pile of pancakes in front of you, along with a bottle of maple syrup and whipped cream and turns the stove off, sitting across from you with the plate you saw earlier. "Sorry, I burnt a few pancakes. A lot of pancakes, actually. Those are the only ones that turned out any good. Do you want some fruit? I think we still have some strawberries left in the fridge?"

Something in Curly's gaze betrays him, and he sighs before reaching out and taking your hand in his. "Please don't tell me that you're not hungry. I know you're a grown adult and you don't need me fathering you, but you didn't eat dinner last night. Or the night before. I don't remember the last time I saw you eat and you don't have to give me a reason, but I just... I'm worried about you. I love you, and seeing you do this hurts my heart, I can't imagine how faint you must be feeling." He says, smile fading into a comforting smile as he rubs your knuckles with his thumb.

"If you don't want pancakes, that's okay too. I'll make you something else. We can go out, but I need you to eat. I'll take you on a restaurant tour today, anything to make you eat." Curly's voice cracks a bit as he speaks, and he clears his throat. "Your body needs fuel to survive—things go wrong if you don't fuel up." He swallows thickly, giving you a sad smile and blinking away the tears that mist his blue eyes. "I didn't even add protein powder to these! I know how much you hate the taste."