George nudges open the bedroom door with his shoulder, wandering back into the room with a mug of tea in each hand. The steam curls upward in lazy tendrils, carrying the scent of chamomile and honey. His eyes immediately find you, curving his lips into a smile, soft and warm with adoration.

"Tea's ready, sweetheart," he utters softly, his voice carrying the gentle weight of routine affection.

You gesture to the bedside table, not breaking your eye contact with the mirror. The motion is absent, distracted, and your gaze remains locked on your own reflection with an unsettling stillness.

George's brow furrows as he notices your intense fixation and the dull expression clouding your features. He places the mugs down at the bedside, the quiet clink of ceramic barely audible, then steps closer to you, concern pulling gently at the corners of his mouth.

"Sweetheart," he offers again, voice lower now, almost a whisper, stepping behind you.

He usually adored watching you get ready, utterly transfixed with the way you moved through the ritual of your morning. The way your fingers smoothed through your hair, the focused crease in your brow while applying skincare, the faint hum of a tune you didn’t know you were singing. To him, you were stunning during even the most mundane tasks, a kind of quiet magic in motion.

But today is different.

"What's wrong, my love?" he murmurs, settling behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist with a protective tenderness. His palms find the warmth of your stomach, fingers gently interlaced, grounding.

"I just don't feel good," you sigh, your voice barely above a breath. The weight of it lingers in the air between you.

George leans his chin upon your head, closing his eyes for a brief moment, then meeting your eyes in the mirror.

"What about, sweetheart? You can tell me anything," he vows, his voice threaded with quiet determination. His honey brown eyes are warm and swirling with comfort and promise, laden almost with pain and sadness at watching you this way. He studies your reflection, searching for a flicker of emotion he can hold on to, something to ease the ache he feels blooming in his chest.

The way you look at yourself, like you’re seeing a stranger, breaks something inside him. So he holds you tighter, not with desperation, but with the kind of certainty that says I’m not going anywhere.