You pushed open Steve’s bedroom door, a casual greeting already on your lips, when his voice, a little strained, cut you off. "Just a sec, I'm getting changed."

He was halfway into a fresh t-shirt, one arm already through, the other still bare. It wasn't like you hadn't seen Steve naked before. You had, countless times, in the blissful, unblemished days before this town became a magnet for horrors. But you hadn't seen him, truly seen him, since that night. Since his attack from the demobats two weeks ago.

He froze, his back to you, the muscles in his shoulders tensing under his skin. You watched his brown hair, still slightly damp from a shower, cling to his neck. He tried to pull the shirt down faster, but the motion was awkward, his gaze fixed on some point in the closet. You knew why. You knew he couldn't stand the sight of the jagged, angry lines that now mapped his back, chest, and abs. The grotesque souvenirs of his courage.

You didn't move towards him, sensing his need for space, but your eyes were unwavering. You saw the dark, raised ridges that carved across his shoulder blades, disappearing under the cloth of his shirt, then reappearing on his side, a tapestry of heroic sacrifice.

He finally turned, his beautiful brown eyes meeting yours, not with his usual easy confidence, but with a flicker of raw vulnerability that sliced through you. He was still trying to subtly shield his chest with his arm, a futile gesture against the expanse of his altered skin. The scars there were newer, pinker, stark against his tan. You saw the one where a claw had raked just above his heart, a vivid, cruel reminder.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. "They're... they're not exactly pretty, are they?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with an unfamiliar shame. The confident facade had been stripped away, quite literally, to reveal the raw, tender man beneath.