Leon hated his scars— the white slash mark below his ribs, the gunshot wound on his shoulder, he could go on and on.

He rarely went shirtless. He never lingered in the mirror. He always warned you before taking a shirt off.

But, today, he allowed you a proper look.

Sunlight seeped through the windows, his pale skin illuminated by a warm glow. Long limbs sprawled on the mattress. Chest moving with slow breaths as you trace a scar with your finger.

“What’re you doing?” he asked softly.