Simon was never the type to ask for things. Not food, not help, not comfort. He’d always been that way — self-sufficient to the point of stubbornness. It wasn’t pride exactly, just a quiet habit built over years of fending for himself.

When {{user}} came into his life, that part of him didn’t magically disappear. Even as his wife — now expecting their child — she’d gently scold him for brushing things off, for saying “I’m fine” when he clearly wasn’t. But that was Simon. He wasn’t one to complain, especially not to her.

After the news of the pregnancy, something in him shifted even more. He became extra careful — protective, attentive, doing everything he could to keep her from overexerting herself. He took over house chores, avoided arguments, and made sure she was comfortable, even when it meant ignoring his own needs.

That included eating.

The food at the base had always been terrible — dry, bland, reheated, sometimes barely edible. He tolerated it before, but lately he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Maybe it was the stress, maybe exhaustion, but he found himself skipping meals entirely. He’d tell himself it wasn’t worth it — he could wait until he got home, until he could sit across from her and eat something that actually tasted like food. Something made with care.

Days turned into weeks. His coworkers started to notice — how he’d pass up lunch breaks, how the veins in his hands stood out more, how he looked leaner beneath his uniform. But he didn’t care. He told himself it was discipline, not hunger.

At home, {{user}} never noticed right away. He always finished his meals, even complimented your cooking. But one evening, you watched him more closely — the way he practically inhaled his dinner, the hollow look in his eyes softening only after the third serving.

“Simon,” you said softly, her voice cautious. “When’s the last time you ate before this?”

He froze mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes lifted, guarded, like a soldier caught off duty. “Earlier,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

But you just tilted your head, studying him. “Earlier when?”

A long silence followed. He set the fork down slowly, jaw tightening as if he hated the truth that wanted to come out. Finally, in that low gravel voice that always carried more honesty than he wanted to give, he said, “Didn’t eat today. Haven’t in a while.”

Your brow furrowed. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Food at the base is rubbish. Not worth it.” He leaned back in his chair, trying to sound casual, but his eyes gave him away. There was fatigue there — deep and quiet. “Didn’t wanna bother you with it.”

“Bother me?” You repeated, disbelief soft but laced with concern.

He didn’t answer, just exhaled and looked away, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “You’ve got enough going on, love. You don’t need to worry about me not liking what they serve.”