m.

You blinked. “What?”

“What would feel safe right now?” he asked softly. “Sweet? Salty? Warm? Something small?”

Guilt curled painfully in your chest. “Xavier, you already bought dinner. I don’t want to be difficult.”

“You are not difficult.” His response came immediately.

He stepped closer, voice quieter now. “Eating something uncomfortable just because you think you should is not kindness to yourself.”

Your eyes burned slightly at how easily he said it.

Xavier picked up his phone without hesitation. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured. “I’ll order it.”

You hesitated before quietly naming something simple. Something safe.

“Done,” he said after placing the order, then moved to sit beside you on the couch. “And while we wait,” he added softly, “you can stop apologizing for needing care.”

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Zayne:

Zayne approached your recovery the same way he approached medicine.

Formulaically and carefully.

He understood quickly that large meals overwhelmed you. The portions alone could send you spiraling before you even picked up a fork, and pushing too hard only made things worse.

So he adapted.

Instead of heavy plates piled too high, he prepared smaller meals throughout the day. Protein-rich soups. Rice bowls portioned carefully. Smoothies with added nutrients you didn't notice. Things easy on your stomach while still giving your body what it needed.

“You do not need to force yourself into discomfort to recover,” he told you one evening while setting a small plate in front of you.

You stared down at it cautiously. “This is…less than usual.”

“That is intentional,” he replied calmly. “Your body is still adjusting. Smaller portions are easier physically and mentally.”

You looked up at him uncertainly. “You don’t think I should just push through it?”

Zayne shook his head once. “Recovery built on fear rarely lasts.”

He sat beside you while you ate, not watching closely enough to make you nervous, but present enough that you never felt alone with it either.

“You deserve to feel safe while nourishing yourself,” he said quietly after a moment. “I am not interested in forcing you. I am interested in helping you heal.”

Your throat tightened. Sometimes recovery felt humiliating. Fragile. Like your life revolved around food in ways you hated.

But Zayne never made you feel childish for struggling. Instead, he treated every small victory seriously. Every finished meal. Every honest conversation. Every difficult day survived.

And slowly, with his guidance beside you, recovery stopped feeling impossible.

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Rafayel:

Rafayel noticed the way you looked at mirrors long before you realized he was watching.

It wasn't casual glances. Not normal self-consciousness.

You stared too long. Pinched at your skin. Turned sideways repeatedly like you were trying to find something wrong with yourself, something no one else could see.

And lately, it had gotten worse.

Recovery had put a small amount of weight back onto your body, enough for your doctor to be relieved, enough for Rafayel to quietly celebrate. But every time you caught your reflection now, your expression twisted into something devastated.

One afternoon, he found you standing frozen in front of the mirror in his studio, fingers digging into your waist.

“You’re staring again,” he said softly.

You flinched immediately. “I look huge.”

Rafayel’s face fell.

“Cutie,” he murmured carefully, “you really believe that, don’t you?”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“No,” he said gently. “It sounds painful.”

Later, he spread a large sheet of paper across the floor of his studio and handed you charcoal. “Draw what you think your body looks like.”

You hesitated, embarrassed, but eventually drew.

The outline you drew was much larger than reality.

Rafayel said nothing about it. He simply guided you carefully into the center of the drawing before tracing the actual outline of your body around you.

When he stepped back, your breath caught painfully.

The difference was staggering.

Your knees nearly gave out as tears spilled down your cheeks. “I don’t understand,” you whispered shakily. “I know this one is wrong but I still see it.”

Rafayel crossed the room immediately, pulling you gently into his arms.

“Oh, cutie,” he whispered against your hair, heart breaking at the sound of your crying. “Then I’ll remind you every day until your reflection stops being cruel to you.”

His hands held you carefully, securely.

“You deserve to see yourself the way I see you,” he murmured softly.

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Sylus:

A pair of jeans fitting tighter than expected could ruin your entire day. A shirt hanging too loose could spiral just as quickly. Recovery had made your relationship with clothing fragile, unpredictable.

So Sylus removed the problem entirely.

Every piece of clothing in your closet was custom tailored now. Dresses adjusted perfectly to your measurements. Sweaters fitted comfortably without clinging too tightly. Nothing too small. Nothing oversized enough to make you disappear inside it.

At first, you were embarrassed and ashamed of the money he was spending.

“Sylus,” you sighed one morning while slipping into a perfectly tailored outfit, “normal people buy clothes at stores.”

“And normal people are often dissatisfied,” he replied simply.

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was it helped more than you admitted aloud.

There were fewer breakdowns now. Fewer moments spent crying in fitting rooms or obsessing over the size on tags.

Sylus also made sure movement never became punishment for you.

Instead of intense workouts, he built softer routines into your days. Walking Mephisto together every evening. Stretching beside him in the mornings. Exercises focused on strength instead of shrinking yourself.

“You should feel powerful in your body,” he told you once while adjusting your posture gently. “Not at war with it.”

And somehow, with him, you slowly started believing that might be possible.

His chef always prepared meals he knew felt safest for you, nutrient-dense without overwhelming you, and Sylus always had chocolate tucked away somewhere for the moments cravings hit unexpectedly.

“You keep emergency chocolate on you?” you laughed once.

“For you?” He looked entirely serious. “Always.”

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Caleb:

Caleb took your relapse harder than you did.

Not because he blamed you, never that, but because he remembered every version of you growing up. The stubborn kid who climbed trees too fast. The teenager who stole fries off his plate. The way you used to laugh so freely before food became something frightening.

So seeing you like this hurt him deeply.

Even now, sitting across from him picking apart your dinner instead of eating it, you looked exhausted in ways that made his heart ache.

“You’re moving in with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Caleb,”

“I’m serious.”

His voice softened immediately after, concern replacing the firmness. “Pips, I can’t keep wondering if you’re taking care of yourself when I’m not there.”

Guilt twisted inside you. “I don’t want to be monitored all the time.”

“That’s not what this is.” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face before crouching beside your chair. “I just…” His expression cracked slightly. “I need to know you’re safe.”

Caleb rested his arms across your knees carefully. “You don’t have to do recovery alone anymore. Let me help.”

He became quietly protective after that.

Cooking meals for you himself. Keeping snacks around the apartment. Sitting with you during difficult meals even when you barely spoke. He never forced you, but he always noticed when you were struggling.

Sometimes it overwhelmed you, how much he cared.

“You hover,” you complained weakly one evening.

Caleb grinned faintly. “Yeah, well. You’re my favorite person.” Then his expression softened again. “And I’m not losing you to this.”

The possessiveness in his voice should have felt suffocating.