The first time, you thought it was sweet, the way he steps close, his chest to your back, and slides the zipper down slow, like unwrapping a gift. His hands are steady, calloused from years of working with wood, and he takes his time—unhooking your bra, letting it fall to the floor, his fingers brushing your shoulders like he’s memorizing the shape of them. But after the third time, you start to wonder. Why never face to face? Why the careful avoidance of your eyes in the mirror?
You ask him once, when you’re both sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, sunlight slanting through the blinds. “Why do you always… you know… undress me from behind?” He pauses, stirring his cup like it holds the answer, and when he speaks, his voice is lower than usual. “Easier that way,” he says, but his eyes don’t meet yours. Easier. As if fumbling with a clasp from the front is harder than navigating it blind from behind. You let it go, but the question sticks, like a splinter.
Tonight, he does it again, and you catch his reflection in the mirror—his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the nape of your neck, like looking at your face would break something. That’s when it clicks. It’s not about ease. It’s about vulnerability. He can’t stand to see the way you look at him in those moments—the softness, the trust—because it reminds him of all the ways he’s failed at this before, of the marriages that crumbled, the promises he couldn’t keep. From behind, he can pretend he’s not worthy of the gaze. From behind, he can almost believe he’s not breaking your heart when he inevitably pulls away. But you see him, even in the mirror. You always have.