Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, shirt off, moonlight painting every inch of skin and scar.

You came up behind him, gentle fingers ghosting over the line across his shoulder blade.

“This one?” you asked.

“Knife. Falcone’s men. I was twenty.”

You traced a smaller one on his ribs. “Bullet?”

He nodded. “Didn’t go all the way through.”

You moved to a burn near his hip. “Flames?”

He exhaled. “Chemical fire.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. Just listened.

And when you kissed one—soft and reverent—he froze.

“None of these scare me,” you whispered. “But it scares me how many more you might get.”

He turned to face you, eyes soft, voice hoarse. “I’ll try harder to come home to you.”