You were standing near the wardrobe, shirt halfway pulled off, your back turned to him—but not enough. Not enough to hide it.

The scars.

They stretched across your torso, pale and jagged, some thin, some wider, older ones layered beneath newer ones. They weren’t small. They weren’t something you could brush off or ignore. They told a story he had never been allowed to read.

His chest tightened.

“I—” he swallowed, looking away instinctively, like he’d intruded on something sacred. “I didn’t know you were— I can leave.”

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, stiff, like if you moved too fast, everything would shatter.

He should’ve walked out. That’s what a normal person would do. Give you space. Pretend he hadn’t seen.

But he didn’t.

“Hey…” His voice softened, careful now, like he was stepping onto fragile ground. “You don’t have to— I mean… you can finish getting dressed. I’ll just—”

“I said I’d be quick,” you cut in, your voice tight, too controlled. Not angry—worse. Defensive.

He glanced back despite himself. You had turned slightly, arms instinctively crossing over your torso, trying to hide what he’d already seen.

It made something twist painfully in his chest.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

You frowned, confused. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hide like that.” His tone wasn’t sharp, just… certain. “Not from me.”