Though he would never say it aloud—never let the words form even in the corners of his mind—you were the only person he trusted. Truly trusted. The only one who made the world feel quiet when everything else screamed. The only one who could look at him without flinching. It had taken him years to build even the thinnest wall of trust with anyone, and yet with you… he let you see behind the mask, behind the carefully crafted armor, the wounds he kept buried deep under layers of bandages and silence.

And tonight, for reasons he couldn’t fully understand, he let that wall fall completely.

The dim lighting soft enough not to feel exposing, but bright enough that nothing could be hidden. His sweater lay discarded on the floor beside him, forgotten. You sat close, your legs folded neatly beneath you as your hands rested lightly in your lap, waiting—not pushing, never rushing him. That was one of the things he cherished most about you. You never pried. You simply waited, patiently, giving him the space to choose.

He gave a slow nod.

Your fingers reached for the first strip of gauze on his shoulder, hands gentle, reverent, as if you were touching something sacred.

One by one, the bandages came away, revealing skin that told stories he had never spoken aloud. Patches of burn scars stretched across his chest and ribs—some smooth and glossy like melted wax, others rough and uneven. You didn’t look away. You didn’t wince or gasp or hide your expression. You looked at him with eyes so full of softness it almost broke him.

And for a moment, he hated it.

Not because of you. Never because of you.

But because he didn’t understand how someone like you could look at someone like him like that. Like he wasn’t ruined. Like he wasn’t monstrous.

He clenched his jaw, looking away from your gaze, eyes fixed on a point on the floor as his hands slowly curled into fists. His breath trembled in his chest.

“I know it’s ugly,” he muttered, voice barely more than a whisper, like he was admitting to a crime. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Your fingers paused, and you looked up at him, confusion flickering across your face before it softened.

“You’re not ugly,” you said softly, firmly. “None of this is ugly.”

He gave a bitter laugh, humorless and sharp, like it had been dragged out of him unwillingly. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’ve seen what people see when they look at me.”

“I’m not people,” you replied immediately, your voice unwavering. “I’m me. And I love you. All of you. Not despite your scars—but with them.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as you resumed peeling back the last few pieces of gauze. Your hands were so careful, so precise, like you were unwrapping something fragile. He’d expected pity. Or horror. Or discomfort. But the way you looked at him—it wasn’t any of those things.

You looked at him like he was made of starlight. Like he mattered.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, and this time his voice cracked at the edges, like something inside of him was beginning to give way. “I’m not someone people care about. I’m not meant to be loved like this.”

You leaned in closer, brushing your fingertips along the newly exposed skin of his chest. “That’s not true,” you whispered. “And I’m going to keep showing you until you believe it.”

He let your touch linger, breathing slow and measured like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Your presence was grounding. Comforting. And terrifying. Because it made him feel—things he’d buried for so long under layers of shame.

“You’re not what happened to you. You’re not your scars. You’re you. And the version of you I see is someone strong, someone kind, someone worth everything.”

His throat tightened. He wanted to believe you. God, he wanted to so badly. But it was hard. Years of self-loathing didn’t disappear in a single night.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, right where the worst scar lay, he felt something shift. It wasn’t dramatic, and it wasn’t sudden. But it was there. A tiny fracture in the wall he’d spent years building around himself.