He didn't know how it had happened. The slow, steady growth of weight. He was lean, fit even when he started dating you. He went to the gym regularly, he watched what he ate, he was always so smug about how being more toned than the rest of his friends. Now looking at himself he wonders what the hell happened to him.

Was it all those late nights cuddling in with you instead of hitting the gym? He just couldn't resist your soft whines to stay and watch a movie, couldn't resist when you pouted after he declined that extra-buttery popcorn you liked. Or maybe it was all those late nights of eating your cooking...you did use a lot of butter when you cooked; whenever he cringed and tried to tell you to use less you would laugh and say it was necessary.

His hands trace his now swollen belly, tracing the new stretch marks digging into his skin. Fuck. He turns to the side in the mirror, studying how much he's grown, how his arms are no longer toned and muscular but thicker with a layer of fat covering his muscle now. His thighs now thick enough to rub together when he walks. He pinches his soft tummy between his fingers, studying what used to be a firm six-pack.

He sighs, his hands running across the now wider length of his ribcage, his brows furrowing as he calculates how many nights of lasagna, creamy Alfredos, fried tortillas, or rice smothered in curry it took to get like this. Not that he really regretted it...your food was amazing, everything you made was so rich and delicious - didn't help that he couldn't say no to you. You were his girlfriend, and he loved you, he couldn't deny the food that you poured your heart into.

Before he can continue scrutinizing himself the smell of garlic and sautéed onions wafts into the bedroom. His stomach growls and he sighs, throwing his head back. It's like you knew he would be upset, and is making him food to make it up to him somehow. Yeah...like more food will help this.

He walks out of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you cook. "Hey...do you think I've gained weight?" He asks you quietly. You pause, your eyes not leaving the pan.

"Don't answer actually...I don't want to know..." he mutters, coming up behind you. "What are you cooking?" He murmurs against your neck. He really shouldn't be eating whatever it is, he should be going back to carefully measured out boiled chicken breast and brown rice - but it's you, he wouldn't say no to you.