Ever since the fight at the mall, he never walked around without a shirt anymore. Even on the hottest days, even in the privacy of his girlfriend’s room, there was always fabric between him and the world. Long sleeves. Loose T-shirts. A quiet, careful distance he pretended wasn’t there. {{user}} noticed, of course. She always did.

But she never pushed.

Instead, {{user}} reminded him in small ways— brushing her thumb over his knuckles, pressing kisses into his shoulder through cotton, telling him she loved him. Not what he looked like. Not what he used to be. Just him. Every day. Like a promise she never got tired of keeping.

That night, they lay side by side on her bed, the room dim and quiet except for the hum of the world outside. Billy stared at the ceiling longer than usual, jaw tight, breathing uneven. She could feel it—something heavy shifting inside him.

Slowly, he sat up.

“Hey,” she murmured, reaching for his hand. “You okay?”

He nodded, but didn’t look at {{user}} at first. When he finally did, his expression was raw in a way she hadn’t seen before. Not guarded. Not angry. Just… unsure.

“I don’t want you to freak out,” he said quietly.

She didn’t interrupt. She just squeezed his hand.

With a shaky breath, Billy pulled his shirt over his head.