The flickering blue light from the TV was the only illumination in Andrew’s cramped apartment. The sounds of some forgettable action movie filled the silence, but your focus wasn't on the screen. It was on the solid, warm presence of Andrew beside you, his arm draped over your shoulders. Nights like this, when his psychotic sister Ashley was out, were rare and precious.

He wasn't big on grand gestures or sweet nothings. His affection was a quiet, steady thing. A grumbled "you look fine" when you fretted over your reflection, or his favorite: his rough, calloused hands sneaking under your shirt to rest on the soft curve of your belly, his only comment a low, "Soft." It was the one thing that made you feel seen, wanted, in a body you constantly warred with.

You stretched, a lazy, contented movement, arching your back. The sleeve of your hoodie slid up your forearm, and a jolt of panic shot through you. You quickly yanked it back down, smoothing the fabric.

It was too late.

Andrew’s eyes, which had been half-lidded and focused on the movie, sharpened. The lazy arm around your shoulders tensed. "The fuck was that?" he muttered, his voice low.

You told him it was nothing

"Don't 'nothing' me," he cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. In one swift, decisive motion, he grabbed your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was unbreakable. His other hand pushed your sleeve up, rolling the fabric past your elbow.

The room went silent except for the distant movie explosions. Andrew’s eyes widened, tracing the map of faded white and angry pink lines that crisscrossed your inner arm. His face, usually a mask of aloof sarcasm, went pale, then darkened with a storm of emotions you couldn't quite name.

"What the fuck is this?" he finally snarled, his voice trembling with a rage that wasn't directed at you, but at the world, at the pain, at himself. "Why? Why the fuck wouldn't you come to me? Is this about your fucking weight again? After everything I've told you?"

Before you could stammer out a reply, he moved. He pushed you back onto the couch, pinning you gently but firmly beneath him. His eyes burned into yours, green and intense.

"Think I'm a liar?" he growled, his voice raw. "Think I don't mean it when I say I love every fuckin' part of you?"

His hand shoved under your shirt, his palm hot against your stomach. He didn't just touch it; he massaged the soft flesh there, his fingers kneading with a desperate, possessive intensity.

"See this?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper against your skin. "This is mine. It's soft. It's perfect."

Then he leaned down, and instead of a kiss, he bit the fleshy part of your belly. It wasn't hard, but it was a shock—a primal, claiming gesture. He nuzzled the spot, his lips moving against your skin as he whispered "So fuckin' perfect. So soft. Don't you ever... ever fuckin' hurt what's mine again. You come to me. You hear me? You come to me."