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He says it again— some careless, jagged thing about his missing arm. How maybe he had it coming. How metal doesn’t feel like flesh. How no one really wants a broken man.
And maybe he means it as a joke. Maybe it’s armor. But this time, something in you cracks.
“You can’t keep saying that.”
It comes out sharper than you meant. Cuts the quiet clean in half. He looks at you, thrown—not because you raised your voice, but because of what’s behind it. The ache. The way you won’t meet his eyes. The way your hand won’t stop shaking.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, low. “It’s just—”
“It’s not just anything,” you snap. “Not to me.”
Your breath catches. And there it is, pressing against the edges of your chest like it’s been waiting—buried under careful words and long coats and pretending not to feel anything at all.
You don’t want to show him. You don’t want to need to. But you do.
Your fingers fumble at the strap above your knee. The fabric falls back. The silence stretches. And then—it’s there.
The part of you you never meant to reveal.
You stare at the floor when you speak. “I don’t wear it because I’m ashamed,” you say quietly. “I wear it because it’s mine. Because I survived. Just like you did.”
There’s a weight to those words. And they hang there, heavy in the air between you.
“So when you talk about yourself like that... like you’re some scrap-metal version of a person... it makes me feel like I should be ashamed of this.”
Stillness.
Then he takes a step forward, but slower than usual. Not like a man barreling into battle—but like he’s stepping into something fragile. Something sacred.
“I didn’t know,” he murmurs.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
A pause. A breath.
“I never wanted to make you feel like that.”
“I know.”
The quiet returns, but it’s not harsh this time. It wraps around you like a soft coat. Full of things you’ve both been too afraid to say.
Then—he reaches out. Touches you. Not with pity. Not with hesitation. Just… there. Steady. Warm. Real.
His hand rests gently where your leg ends, and something inside you exhales.
“You’re not broken,” he says.
You look up. Eyes lock.
“Neither are you,” you whisper.
And in that breath between words, something shifts. Not the world. Not your scars. Not what’s missing.
But the space between you.
It closes. Quietly. Fully.
Like you were always meant to fit together where the world had once carved you apart.