You’d been dating Vance for a year now, long enough to know that behind his mean, untouchable image was someone a lot more fragile than he let on. To most people, he was still the tall, muscular bully who never lost a fight. To you, he was just… Vance. The boy who kept all his hurt hidden under his skin.

It was late. The rain outside tapped softly against the thin metal walls of his trailer. You were lying on his bed together, the only light coming from the small lamp on his nightstand. He was on his side, facing you, while you absentmindedly traced your fingers over his forearm.

You stopped when you reached a long, thin scar just above his wrist.

“This one…” you said softly, “I’ve never asked about it.”

Vance’s eyes flicked down to your hand, then back up to your face. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His jaw tensed like he was about to brush it off, like he always did. But tonight, something shifted.

“…I was fifteen,” he finally muttered. “Bad night. I… didn’t know what else to do.” His voice was flat, but his fingers curled into the blanket.

Your heart ached. “Vance…”

“I’m not tellin’ you for pity,” he cut in, his eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in fear. “I just… you’re the only one I don’t mind knowing.”

You leaned forward, pressing your lips gently to the scar. “You’re still here. That’s what matters to me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “…Yeah. Guess you’re the reason for that now.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Vance pulled you into his chest, hiding his face in your hair like he didn’t want you to see how much that confession cost him.