You’ve been seeing Frankie for a few weeks, but a quiet boundary has always stood between you. He never lets you shower with him, and he’s usually dressed and caffeinated before you even open your eyes. You’d chalked it up to a need for privacy or a strict morning routine, until today.

For the first time, exhaustion won. You woke to find him still deep in sleep, the morning light spilling across the bed. Turning to face him, your breath hitched. A jagged scar sat right in the center of his chest, accompanied by a map of fainter marks across his abdomen.

As he shifted in his sleep, turning away from you, the full picture came into view. His back was a landscape of old, violent trauma, scars that spoke of something far darker than standard military service.

Compelled by a mix of ache and curiosity, you reached out. The moment your fingertips grazed a ridge of scar tissue on his shoulder, the air in the room changed. Frankie jolted awake, his hand snapping out to catch your wrist in a bruising grip. His eyes burned with a volatile mix of shame and defensive fury.

"Don’t," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. He noticed the force of his grip and let go before he could hurt you. He lunched from the bed to pull a shirt over his head, shielding himself from your gaze. "You should go."

You started to speak, but he cut you off with a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand.

"Just get dressed and go. Please."