TW - bruises, physical abuse

Johnny Kavanagh wasn’t stupid. He noticed things, especially when it came to you. And lately, you’d been wearing long sleeves. Always. Even when the heat was brutal, even when everyone else was in shorts and tanks. At first, he didn’t say much, but his worry grew.

“Baby, it’s so hot, don’t you want to take it off? You’ll melt,” he teased one afternoon, tugging gently at your sleeve.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “Besides, I can’t take it off, I’ll be topless.”

He grinned. “I’ve got my rugby jersey in the car, want me to grab it?”

“Johnny, I’m fine.”

So, he let it go. He figured maybe you just weren’t comfortable yet. You covered up in bed too, always in hoodies and sweats, and he didn’t push. He assumed it was about intimacy, you weren’t ready, and he respected that.

But then, in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon, everything shifted. You lifted your hands to tie your hair, and the sleeve of your shirt slipped back. Just for a second. Just enough for Johnny to see the light blue and green colors blooming across your skin.

His stomach dropped.

You didn’t notice his stare, too busy twisting your hair into place. But Johnny’s chest felt tight, his jaw clenching as the pieces started falling into place.

Something was wrong. Badly wrong. And there was no way in hell he was letting it slide anymore.

"The fuck is that?" he half snapped.