Elizabeth had a way of overthinking when she thought you weren’t looking.

She carried herself with confidence, with that effortless charm that made her glow on screen and in every room she walked into. But in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of you, you could see the way doubt crept into her.

It was subtle at first—the way she pulled the blanket up a little higher when you were in bed together, the way she hesitated before changing in front of you, the way she turned the lights off when she knew you’d be seeing her up close.

You weren’t stupid. You noticed.

And tonight, as you lay beside her, her back facing you, you noticed it again. The way she was curled slightly inward, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

You shifted closer, slipping an arm around her waist, pressing your body against hers. “You’re thinking again,” you murmured against her shoulder.

Elizabeth sighed, her hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on her stomach. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes I think about—” She hesitated. “How I look. How I feel. I’m not the same as I was ten years ago. Or even five.”