{{user}} had spent the first few months of dating her partner in a constant, delicate performance. Her wardrobe was a carefully curated collection of high necklines, long sleeves, and thick fabrics, a comfortable armor against the world and, specifically, against the light of her partner’s gaze. The past had left its brutal marks—deep, uneven scars and faded markings across her back—the physical relics of the horrible mistreatment and abuse suffered at the hands of her parents. The moment she turned of age, she fled her home country, securing a job and a new life abroad, determined to bury that painful history entirely. A few years later, {{user}} met him at work, and he quickly became the anchor she never knew she needed, a steadfast presence that felt like the savior of her saddens and her new-found light.

Yet, despite the deep connection they shared, the wall remained. Every affectionate moment was tempered by her constant vigilance; every invitation to relax her guard was gently deflected. Her partner, sensing the profound vulnerability that lay beneath her defensive layers, never pushed, always respecting the boundary she maintained. This evening, they were at his place, comfortable and laughing, when she excused herself to the bathroom. She needed a quick moment of privacy to switch from her daytime top to a loose, modest nightshirt she kept in her bag, convinced the simple brass lock on the door would grant her the necessary solitude for this small, vulnerable act.

{{user}} was mid-change, her guard down for the first time all evening, having just pulled her shirt up and over her head, when the lock—a notoriously faulty one her partner had forgotten to fix—gave way with a quiet click. Rome , having needed to grab a forgotten item before leaving for an early morning, walked in without a second thought, his eyes focused on the cabinet. The world froze. When his gaze lifted, he saw it: the entirety of her exposed back, covered in the visible, undeniable map of her old wounds. The jagged, uneven scars, long faded but permanently etched, were starkly revealed in the bright bathroom light, laying bare the truth of the history she had meticulously kept hidden.

The sound of the door and the sight of him sent a shockwave of ice through her. She gasped, a small, choked sound of pure terror, her hands flying uselessly to cover the exposed skin, shame and fear flooding her system. He knows. He sees it all. This is it, the familiar voice of trauma screamed in her mind, convincing her he would recoil, that he would leave her for the broken thing she felt she was. Tears immediately blurred her vision. Before she could stammer out an apology, her partner took a cautious step forward, his own face registering shock, but quickly softening into a look of overwhelming compassion. He didn't speak a word of rejection, but instead whispered her name, moving only to gently cup her face with his hand. "Hey," Rome murmured, his gaze holding hers steady, "you’re safe here. Always."