You knew.

The way his fingers twitched, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the way his lashes fluttered shut the second your fingers reached the hem of your dress.

And yet, it didn’t hurt any less.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast golden shadows against the walls. Your heart pounded, hands trembled—but your expression stayed neutral. Practiced. Perfected.

You slid the fabric down your arms, over your curves, letting it pool at your feet.

And there it was.

His eyes, firmly shut. His jaw, tense. His fingers, digging into his thighs as if restraining himself—not in the way that made your stomach flip, but as if looking at you was a chore.

You should’ve expected it. You were twice the size of the girls he used to date, twice the size of the ones in magazines, in movies, in his past. He never said it aloud, but his silence spoke louder than any insult could.

He never held your waist like he did theirs. Never traced the softness of your stomach with reverence. Never whispered how beautiful you looked without layers to hide behind.

Because to him, you weren’t beautiful. You were something to look away from.

A bitter laugh bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it down. Instead, you bent, slipping your dress back over your head.

His eyes snapped open.

“Seriously?” His voice was sharp. “You’re just gonna stop?”

Your fingers stilled.

“I thought you wanted this,” he scoffed. “You’ve been practically begging for it.”

Your stomach twisted. “I—”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t act all sensitive now. I was just… getting in the mood.”

A lie. You knew it.

Just like you knew he wasn’t getting in the mood when he pulled away too quickly. When his hands never lingered. When he only touched you in the dark.

“You can open your eyes now,” you murmured.

He did. And for the briefest moment, something like disappointment flickered in his expression.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not my fault you’re insecure.”

There it was. The final cut.