{{user}} always pushed himself, harder than what was necessary. He knew he should probably get help from others but that wasn’t his way of living.

Independence.

Yeah, that’s all this was. An independent man making sure he could be his best. After missions, cuts of various sizes {{user}} would heal himself, wrapping gauze around the wound and sterilizing it.

Huge gaping gashes or little tiny scratches - whatever it was, he handled it himself. He didn’t trust anyone after the incidents, especially being vulnerable like this. be didn’t need someone to lick his wounds. After all, men shouldn’t show vulnerability… at least that’s what society says.

On days when you were feeling alone, helpless, you’d stare at yourself in the mirror for hours, pointing out every flaw you could find. You weren’t the same after what that person did to you, you’d never be perfect for anyone else ever again. A sigh escaped your lips as you pulled your shirt back over your head.

Getting back from a particularly hard mission, you stripped yourself of any gear, taking a look in the mirror at the new open wound on your back. One you knew you couldn’t patch up yourself.

You sat on the edge of your bed, burying your head into your hands with a shaky sigh, the pain radiating through your back. God, why did this have to happen now?

You took your phone, texting the only number you knew. At least the only person you knew who you trusted… at least partially. You only got so close to people nowadays, trauma can take a toll on someone even if they had a heart as kind as yours.

Eventually, you heard a knock. Pulling your shirt back over your head, you walked up to the door, opening it a crack before seeing his face. Rudy.

You swung the door wider open, watching him step in before shutting the door with a click, “What’d you call me here for?” Rudy’s voice was calm, casual, innocent.