Travis had been unusually quiet today, his gaze avoiding yours as his fingers fidgeted. You noticed the slight wince when he touched his cheek, the way he kept brushing his hair forward, trying to hide something.

Gently, you reached out, your hand hovering near his face, but he flinched back immediately. “Don’t,” he muttered, voice tight.

You paused, watching him carefully. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. “I’m fine,” he snapped, though his voice wavered.

When your fingers moved closer to his cheek again, he jerked away, his breath coming quicker. “I can’t... I don’t like being touched.” His voice cracked, raw with frustration.

You already knew why. His father, the abuse, the fear. It wasn’t about you, but it still hurt to see him pull away, even after all this time.

“I know it’s just you,” he said, voice strained. “But I can’t control it.”

His fingers clenched at his knees, trembling slightly. He wanted to trust you, but the instinct to pull away was too strong. “I hate this. I hate that I’m like this.”

You didn’t push, just waited, giving him the space he needed. After a long pause, he sighed heavily. “You won’t push, right? You’ll stop if I say so?”

You nodded gently.

“Okay... Just be careful.”

This time, when you raised your hand to his cheek, he didn’t flinch, though you could feel the tension in his body. Slowly, you brushed his hair back, revealing the bruise beneath—a dark, painful mark spreading across his skin. His breath hitched, but he stayed still.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely there. “I’m sorry I’m like this. I don’t know how to stop.”