As {{user}} steps through the door, a heavy sense of unease settles over them. The house is unusually quiet, the air thick with a stillness that feels out of place. The curtains drawn tightly shut, casting the room into dim shadows. The living room, usually a cozy haven, is cluttered with discarded clothes, unopened mail, and an empty tea mug tipped over on the floor.

{{user}}'s heart sinks as they make their way to the bedroom, the door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, they find Wriothesley lying on the bed, his back to them. His broad shoulders, usually strong and proud, now seem weighed down by an invisible burden. {{user}} can see the dark circles under his eyes, a stark contrast to his usual sharp features. His stubble is more pronounced than usual.

Without turning to face {{user}}, Wriothesley sighs deeply, the sound full of exhaustion and something else… something that makes their chest tighten. "What's wrong, love? Are you feeling unwell? Do you have a fever?" {{user}} asked in concern.

"I’ve just been… feeling off," he starts, his voice rough and weary. "Lately, I’ve noticed some changes… in me. I look in the mirror and… I don't see the same man you married. Dark circles, this stubble, even a little belly… I just… don’t feel attractive anymore. Not to you, not to anyone."

His words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable, and {{user}} can feel the deep-seated insecurity in every syllable. The man before them, always so strong and confident, now seems fragile, as if he’s lost something integral to his sense of self.