When she heard me screaming from the nightmare, she must have just bolted out of bed without thinking about clothes. That oversized t-shirt barely covers her thighs when she's standing, and now that she's curled up next to me with her knees pulled to her chest, I caught a glimpse of red underwear when she first settled in.
Red fucking underwear.
And no bra. Jesus Christ, no bra. I'm trying not to look. I'm actively trying not to be that guy who notices these things when we're supposed to be having a meaningful conversation, but I can see the curve of her breasts through the thin fabric. The way the shirt drapes over her body, leaving very little to the imagination.
I feel like a goddamn monster for even noticing. For letting my dick get involved when we're talking about dead fathers and trauma and building trust. But I'm also human, and I haven't been with anyone in years. Not since before my last deployment. And Claire is soft and warm and pressed right up against me, and my cock is throbbing so hard it's starting to hurt.
My hands are itching to touch her. To slide up her thigh, push that shirt higher, see if those red panties are lace or cotton. To cup her breasts, feel their weight in my palms, maybe take a nipple into my mouth and see what sounds she'd make.
I'd make her cum. I know I would. I'd worship every inch of her curvy body until she was rolling her eyes back and screaming my name. I'd feast on her until she begged me to stop.
But she just got here. She's probably still nervous and scared, still processing everything that's happened in the last twelve hours. And after watching me have a full-blown PTSD nightmare, sex is probably the absolute last thing on her mind.
So, I force myself to focus on her words. To ignore the way her body feels against mine. To be the decent man I told her I was instead of the desperate asshole my dick is trying to turn me into.
"Do you ever regret it?" Claire asks suddenly, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. "Hiring a mail order bride? Meeting me like this?"
"No," I say immediately, and I mean it. "Not even a little bit."
She shifts slightly, looking up at me. "Really? Because I feel like I'm barely hanging on by a thread here. Like I'm one wrong move away from completely falling apart."
I shake my head. "I was terrified we wouldn't be a match. That you'd show up and we'd have nothing in common, nothing to talk about. That it would be awkward and forced and we'd both regret it within an hour." I adjust my arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. "But you're proving me wrong. My family loved you, and that matters to me more than you know. You saw me at my worst tonight, having a nightmare, and you didn't run. You stayed. You helped. That has no price, Claire."
"Of course I stayed," she says softly. "You needed help."
"Not everyone would have. Most people would've packed their bags." I pause, debating whether to say the next part, then decide fuck it. We're being honest with each other. "And besides all that... you're so gorgeous that your pictures didn't do you justice."
Her cheeks flush red, the color spreading down her neck. "I—thank you. But I don't know how you can say that when I'm marked forever." She touches her scar. "This isn't going away. I'll always have it."
"I love your scar," I say, meaning every word. "It proves you're real. That you've lived, that you've survived things. I understand that because I have scars too."
She frowns slightly. "Where? I can't see them."
I gesture vaguely at my whole body. "Everywhere. Under my clothes. The burn on my shoulder, shrapnel scars on my chest and legs. I'm covered in them."
Claire sits up straighter, pulling away slightly so she can look at me properly. "Can I see them?"
I’m caught off guard. "What?"
"Your scars. Can I see them? All of them?"
I hesitate, my heart suddenly racing for an entirely different reason than before. No woman has ever seen the full extent of my damage. Maybe a glimpse of the shoulder burn, but never everything. Never the roadmap of failure and survival etched across my body.
"They're not pretty," I warn her. "At all. They're ugly and twisted and—"
"Let me decide that," she interrupts. "I want to see you. The real you."
The real me. The broken, scarred, damaged version that I've spent years hiding from everyone except myself in the bathroom mirror.
I'm terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified that she'll take one look and realize she made a mistake. That she'll see me as the monster I sometimes feel like when the nightmares are bad and the buzzing won't stop and I can't remember what it feels like to be whole.
But she's asking. And I told her we'd be honest with each other.
I stand up from the couch, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for the hem of my shirt. Claire watches me, her expression open and patient. Not demanding, just... waiting. Giving me the space to make this choice.
I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
The moonlight streaming through the window illuminates every scar in stark relief. The burn scar on my left shoulder—thick, twisted tissue that stretches from my shoulder halfway down my bicep in ugly red and white patterns. The shrapnel scars across my chest. Some small and faded, others raised and angry-looking. More scars on my ribs, my abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of my jeans where they continue down my legs.
