She hadn’t been eating.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. A skipped meal here and there. Saying she wasn’t hungry, pushing food around her plate instead of actually eating it. But then it got worse. Even the chipper—her favorite—was left untouched.

That’s when I knew something was really wrong. My girl loved feasting, loved ordering takeout and curling up on the couch with her sappy movies, stealing my food even when she had her own. But now? Now she barely looked at a plate.

I caught her in the kitchen, staring into the fridge like she was hoping it’d disappear. Her shoulders were tight, her hands gripping the counter, and she just looked… lost.

“{{user}},” I said, stepping behind her, resting a hand on her waist. “What’s going on?”

She tensed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

I exhaled, rubbing slow circles against her hip. “No, you’re not.”

She swallowed hard, still not looking at me. “I just haven’t been hungry.”

“Not hungry,” I repeated, watching the way she avoided my eyes. “Or not letting yourself eat?”

That got her attention. Her head snapped up, her lips parting like she wanted to argue, to push me away, but I wasn’t letting her.

“Talk to me,” I said, softer now. “Please.”

She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I don’t like what I see, Johnny.”

My heart clenched.

She was insecure. My baby—my beautiful, strong, incredible girl—felt like there was something wrong with her.

I turned her gently, forcing her to face me. “That’s bollocks,” I said, cupping her face, my thumbs brushing against her cheeks. “You’re perfect. You hear me?”

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes glassy. “I don’t feel perfect.”

I bent down, pressing my forehead against hers. “I know, baby,” I murmured. “But I wish you could see yourself the way I do. You’re the best thing in my life. And I need you to take care of yourself, yeah? For me. For you.”

I meant it. The fact that she felt uncomfortable in her skin upset me a crazy fucking amount.