The office door is closed.

Finally quiet.

You turn away, pulling off your damp shirt after the case.

Connor is at the desk—at least, he was.

He pauses.

“You are changing,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply, grabbing a clean shirt.

You pull it on quickly.

It should’ve been nothing.

But Connor steps a little closer.

“There are markings on your skin,” he says.

You stop for a second.

“…What?”

“Linear patterns,” he explains. “Lower abdomen, sides. They resemble scar tissue, but not from injury.”

Your hand tightens slightly on your sleeve.

“Oh.”

“They’re stretch marks,” you say, keeping your tone even.

Connor tilts his head.

“…From what?”

The question lands heavier than it should.

“It’s nothing,” you answer quickly.

“That is not a complete explanation,” he says.

You look at him. “Connor—”

A pause.

“They just happen,” you add. “That’s it.”

He watches you.

“Your stress level increased when I asked.”

You exhale, sharper now. “Can you drop it?”

A short silence.

“…Understood,” Connor replies.

You turn slightly away again, adjusting your shirt even though it’s already fine.

For a second, your hand rests against your stomach—without thinking.

Then you pull it away quickly.

Connor notices the movement.

But this time, he doesn’t comment on it.

“You do not have to explain,” he says instead.

You don’t answer.

Just nod once, like you want it to end there.

Would he understand if you would tell him what happened…?