Jason sits on the edge of the bed, watching you undress across the room. You pause at your shirt, fingers hesitating at the hem. Your back stays turned. He can feel you shrinking in on yourself, piece by piece.

“You always do that when you think I’m not paying attention.”

No response. He stands, takes a few slow steps toward you.

You pull the shirt off fast, trying to hide it like it won’t matter if it’s quick. He catches the flash of stretch marks across your waist, your hips. You fold your arms over your stomach like you’re apologizing for something.

“Don’t do that.”

You still won’t face him. He exhales.

Jason’s shirt is already on the floor.

“Look at me.” He says, inching closer.

“You know how many scars I’ve got? I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up—shit, half of me looks like I lost a fight with a shredder. But you think you have to hide from me?”

“I’ve never once looked at a mark on you and thought ‘ugly.’ Not once. Not even close.”

He reaches out, brushes his fingers across the curve of your waist, across the lines you try so desperately to cover. You tense up. He doesn’t move away.

“These marks? They’re not flaws. They’re reminders. You lived. You grew. You endured. And maybe no one ever told you that’s beautiful, but I’m telling you now.”

He cups your face, gentler than he’s ever been with anything.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of having lived. If someone made you believe you had to hide to be loved, they were never loving you in the first place. You don’t need to cover up. Not with me.”