Ash pulls up in front of your building, the engine low and steady. You slide in, coat brushing the seat, the classy top tucked perfectly into your skirt, tights smooth, nice hair and jewelry, everything about you polished. He glances at you, eyes dark, slow. “You look good,” he says, straightforward. Honest. No flair, no “wow,” just truth.

“Thanks,” you murmur with a quick smile, but there’s a flicker in your eyes, a hesitation he notices instantly. He doesn’t push. Not here, not now.

At the bar, it’s clear something’s off. Your friends compliment your outfit, and you nod, half-smile, but there’s tension in the way you hold yourself—arms crossed loosely, shoulders just slightly hunched, fingers tapping at your glass. You laugh softly at jokes, but your eyes are distant, scanning, uncomfortable. Ash leans back, observing.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, keeping it simple, casual, just checking in. You mumble something small, not really an answer. “Want another drink?” Another soft, neutral nudge. You shake your head. He lets it go, for now.

But he watches, the way you fidget with your coat, glance at your reflection in a dark window, as if searching for something.

When it’s time to leave, you slide into the car, silent, coat draped over your lap. Ash starts the engine, his hands firm on the wheel, eyes on the road, voice low but firm. “You’ve been off tonight. What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. Not immediately. You stare out the window, quiet, almost withdrawn. He keeps his gaze on the road, tone firmer now, calm but uncompromising. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Still nothing. The silence is thick. Then, finally, with certainty, like you’ve made up your mind, you say:

“I feel ugly.”

Ash freezes, frowning slightly, disbelief creeping in. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just tightens his grip on the wheel and says, flat, unshakable: “You what?”

“I feel ugly,” you repeat, steady, sure of it. No doubt, no hesitation.

He looks at you for a second, holding back from just pulling over, jaw tight, brow furrowed. His voice is quiet, but every word lands like concrete. “How? I don’t get how you can even think that. Look at you. Your outfit, your hair, your—everything. You’re gorgeous. You hear me?”

You still don’t react and he sighs. He knows compliments won’t do the job.

“Seriously. Explain it to me. Where is this coming from? This self-doubt, this—bullshit, because that’s what it is. Bullshit. You know that, right?” He asks, trying to understand.