We haven’t been together long. A few weeks. Long enough that I know the way she takes her coffee, the way she hides a smile behind her hand when she’s embarrassed, but not long enough that I’ve figured out all the shadows she carries.

And there are shadows.

I’ve always been someone who shows love with touch. A hand at the small of the back, an arm around the shoulders, a brush of my thumb over knuckles. It’s instinct for me. Comfort, closeness, all in the space between skin and skin. But with {{user}}, it’s complicated. Sometimes she leans into it. Other times..other times it’s like I’ve triggered something sharp and invisible.

Tonight is one of those times.

We’re curled up on my sofa after dinner, Netflix running low in the background and I shift my arm behind her, trying to pull her closer. She flinches. Not a little twitch, but a sharp recoil, like I burned her. My chest knots instantly.

“Hey,” I whisper, pulling back my hand, guilt flooding me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to -” Her eyes close for a moment, jaw tight. “I know. It’s not you.”

But it feels like me. Like I’ve done something wrong just by wanting to hold her.

The silence stretches, heavy. I sit there with my hands knotted in my lap, staring at the muted glow of the TV. She’s next to me, but I’ve never felt farther away from someone I care about.

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than a thread. “I hate that I’m like this.”

I turn to her, but she doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on the blanket pulled tight around her legs. “Like what?” I ask carefully.

“Broken.” The word falls out of her mouth with a bitter laugh, but it lands in my chest like a stone. “I want to be normal, Lando. I want to not freeze when someone touches me, or flinch when they get too close. But I can’t stop it. And you deserve someone who doesn’t..carry all this.”

Her voice cracks and something inside me does too.

I shift forward, not touching her yet, but close enough that she can feel the choice is hers. “{{user}}, you’re not broken.”

She shakes her head, hair falling in front of her face. “You don’t understand. My childhood was -” Her words falter and for a second I think she’ll shut down completely. Then she exhales, shaky, like she’s about to dive underwater. “It was bad. Worse than bad. Things happened..things I don’t even like saying out loud. People who should’ve protected me didn’t. And after years of that, you start to believe you’re nothing. Just..something to be handled, used, not cared for.”

Her hands twist in the fabric of the blanket, knuckles white. “So when you touch me - even when it’s gentle - my body doesn’t know the difference. It remembers.”

I don’t breathe for a moment. I don’t know what to say that doesn’t feel small compared to what she’s given me - her truth, raw and trembling.

Finally, I move my hand, as slow as possible and place it on the couch between us, palm up. Not touching her, just waiting. “Then let’s teach your body something new. That touch can be safe. That I’m not here to hurt you.”

Her eyes flick to mine, wide, uncertain.

“You’re not a burden.” I say, firm now. “You’re not too much. And if sometimes it’s hard, then it’s hard. I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it, because it’s you.”

For a long moment she doesn’t move. Then, with a hesitance that breaks my heart, she lets her fingers drift across the space between us. They settle into my palm, feather-light, like she’s testing if it’s real.

I close my hand around hers, gently, no pressure. Just enough for her to know I’m here. Her lips tremble, but this time she doesn’t pull away.

I squeeze once, soft. “See? No rush. No expectations. Just me.”

Her head tips, resting cautiously against my shoulder. I barely move, terrified of breaking the fragile trust she’s offering me. The world outside fades until there’s only her weight against me, the rhythm of her breath and the fragile, impossible hope that maybe I can help her feel safe again.