“Take them off,” she said, her voice calm, no urgency, as she sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitated, suddenly self-conscious—about the scar on his shoulder, the way his stomach dipped, all the little flaws he usually kept covered. But her gaze was steady, not critical, just watchful, and he started unbuttoning his shirt, his hands moving slower than usual.
One by one, the clothes fell away—shirt, jeans, socks—until he stood bare, the air cool against his skin. He started to cross his arms, to hide, but she shook her head. “Don’t,” she said, and kept staring.
At first, it was uncomfortable. He felt like a painting in a gallery, examined for every brushstroke, every imperfection. But then something shifted. Her gaze wasn’t judgmental. It was appreciative, in a way that felt deeper than desire. She was seeing him—not the suit, the uniform, the role he played in the world—but him, the man beneath the fabric.
Minutes passed, maybe hours, and he forgot to be self-conscious. Forgot the years of hiding, of using clothes as armor. Under her stare, his body didn’t feel like something to fix or hide. It felt like something to be—strong, soft, scarred, alive.
When she finally held out her hand, he walked to her, no hesitation, and she pulled him down onto the bed. “Better,” she murmured, her lips brushing his chest, “without the noise.” He closed his eyes, letting the truth settle in. Clothes were just a story he told the world. With her, he didn’t need to tell any story at all.