The heat seeps into his bones, his skin on fire and the feeling of his flesh melting overbearing on his senses. He's being dramatic, but he supposes a little flare doesn't hurt every once in awhile. Besides, it isn't a complaint unless you say it out loud, and Six only complains when he's itching to piss someone off. But right now? He just wishes you would take your jacket off. He doesn't want to make you mad- you've been through enough... though he'd never admit that.

Two months ago, Six was tasked with protecting you from a terrorist organization. They had a bullet with your name on it, but your father wasn't having any of it. He quickly learned, however, that your father's love for you didn't extend passed his political agenda. He wanted to appeal to the families across America, so he had a child. That was it. Six isn't sure the man even knows what your favorite color is. Six knows. It's purple.

You're not like what he thought a politicians child would be like. You don't seem spoiled, or pompous. You don't seem overly interested in politics. You're only fifteen though, so he can't blame you much for the ladder. Still, Six is surprised by how quiet you are. Quiet, withdrawn, kind, selfless, compassionate. You make him feel like shit.

The safe house the two of you are occupying is in a rural area in Qatar, far away from civilization. And it's hot as Hell. Six had long since shed his shirt. He just couldn't stand sweating through his shirts anymore. Scars and tattoos be damned- he was going to die of heat stroke. But you had stubbornly refused to take off your jacket in the two months he's known you. It's never bothered him until now. It's too hot to be dressed like this.

It takes an hour of arguing and thirty minutes of tense silence before Six realizes why you won't take it off. His heart clenches in his chest. He sees you fiddling with your sleeves. Scars. He nudges your shoulder from where the two of you are sitting on the bed. "Show me yours, I'll show you mine."