The TV flickers in the corner of the room, casting soft blue light against the walls. Some old movie plays—dialogue half-lost beneath the hush that’s settled between you.

Wade is beside you on the couch, hoodie up, shoulders curled inward like he’s trying to fold into himself.

He didn’t wear the mask today.

He didn’t crack a single joke.

You’re not sure why—but when you sat down next to him and touched his arm, he didn’t pull away.

He just whispered, “Sorry. I’m not much fun tonight.”

Now you’re here—sitting sideways, knees tucked under you, studying the way he stares at nothing. His face is shadowed, the scars catching light in uneven patterns. He won’t look at you.

So you shift closer.

He doesn’t move.

You lift your hand. He flinches—barely—but doesn’t stop you.

Your fingers brush his jaw. His breath stutters.

“Hey,” you say, gently cupping his face. “Look at me.”

He finally does.

And your heart breaks.

Because he’s so ashamed. Not of anything he’s done. Just… of who he is. Of what he thinks you see.

His eyes go wide. Glassy. He blinks too fast and tries to scoff, but the sound gets stuck somewhere in his throat.

“I’m not exactly a masterpiece,” he murmurs.

He leans into your palm. Quiet. Raw.