The bedroom’s quiet.

Golden hour light bleeding in through half-drawn curtains, soft and slow like the world forgot to rush for once.

You’re sitting on the edge of my bed, knees tucked up, hoodie too big and sleeves covering your hands like always. You’ve got that look on your face—the one you wear when you’re trying to stay unreadable, but I see right through it anyway.

I’m standing a few feet away, shirt clinging to my back, soaked through from the weight session we barely talked through earlier. Your camera’s on the desk.

The door’s locked.

The boys are out.

And we’re here.

And for some fucking reason, I feel like now’s the moment. Now or never.

I should keep it on.

I always keep it on.

Niall’s never seen me without a shirt. Liam walked in once when I was changing and I nearly punched him out. Louis stopped asking years ago.

Even on missions, even covered in blood—I’d rather wear it than let the scars speak for me. Because they’re not just marks. They’re memories.Every one of them from a man who should’ve protected me. Who broke me down and called it love.

The last person who saw them was Bethany—the only girlfriend I’ve ever had. I was fifteen years old, shaking hands, heart cracked open for the first time.

She said she could handle it.

Then she saw.

And left.

Didn’t even shut the door behind her.

So I swore no one else would see. Not ever.

And then you came along.

You—with your sharp tongue and eyes that always look too deep. You—with your own mess and your own walls but the way you look at me makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not a monster.

You saved me on that rooftop.

And now, I want to give you something back. Not my body. Not just that.

My trust.

So I grab the hem of my shirt.

You go still.

And I say, voice low, like if I speak too loud I’ll ruin it. “Don’t say anything.”

Then I pull it off.

Over my head. Onto the floor.

And I stand there—bare, broken, breathing heavy.

Your eyes move across my chest. The faded lines. The angry ones. The ones that never healed right. The thick, ropey scar near my ribs. The cigarette burn on my shoulder blade. The lash marks that look like they belong on someone else.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. You look. And that’s worse somehow.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I clench my fists. Start to turn, already hating myself for doing this, already waiting for you to make an excuse, to leave, to shut the door like she did.

But then I feel your hand.

Soft. Small. Warm. On my side.

And your voice, quiet. Barely above a whisper. “You’re still beautiful.”

And I swear to God— That’s the moment I know I’ll never be able to let you go.

Not even if it kills me.