꒰🎰꒱. Chance .⟢

The safehouse had gone still, save for the soft hum of an old ceiling fan and the occasional shuffle of someone moving through another room. Rain tapped gently against the cracked windows, a rhythm too soft to soothe, too steady to ignore. Most survivors were either asleep or pretending to be—lost in the kind of restless, haunted stillness that clung to people who had seen too much and made it out anyway.

{{user}} was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, half-turned away from the door, trying to be discreet as they changed out of their soaked shirt. The fabric was sticking to their skin, heavy with rain and half-dried blood. They weren’t seriously hurt—nothing fresh, nothing new—but the way their shoulders moved said everything: the tension, the pause before tugging the shirt off completely, the brief hesitation like they were fighting themselves.

And then the door creaked open.

“Hey,” came a voice, casual but softer than usual. “You disappear on me for one minute and I start thinking the worst.”

It was Chance.

He stepped in like he owned the space—like he always did—but the moment his eyes landed on {{user}}, that confidence faltered.

The scars weren’t fresh. Some had faded into pale reminders, others still angry and dark across skin that should’ve never been forced to endure that much. They painted a map of pain, survival, loss—like something carved out over time rather than healed.

{{user}} froze, halfway through pulling on a clean shirt.

Chance didn’t speak. Not at first. His shades were off for once, dangling from his collar, and without them, his expression was clear—open. There was no horror in his face, no revulsion or pity. Just this sudden, deep stillness. A kind of stunned reverence that held its breath.

“...You never told me,” he said finally, voice low and rough.

{{user}} didn’t answer. Didn’t turn. Their back was still to him, body tight, shoulders braced like they expected some kind of rejection. Like the wrong word might shatter whatever had kept them together all this time.

Chance crossed the room quietly. He didn’t rush. Didn’t touch. Just stepped close enough to be felt, the warmth of him brushing against the cold in the air.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “Not at you. Just… hurts knowing you thought I wouldn’t understand.” Then Chance lifted a hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Giving {{user}} every second to move away. But they didn’t.

Fingertips brushed gently across a long scar near {{user}}’s shoulder. Chance’s thumb ghosted over it, so soft it barely counted as touch. His breath hitched a little.

“These aren’t ugly,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “They don’t make you weak. They don’t scare me.”

Chance stepped around then, crouching in front of them, meeting their eyes.

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” he said, firmer now. “Not with me.”

“I know what it’s like to carry stuff you think nobody will understand. I know what it’s like to hide pieces of yourself so people don’t run away. But I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a soft exhale, then offered a small smile—gentle, lopsided, tired around the edges.

“If anything… I kinda want to kiss every single one. Just to prove they’re not something ugly. They’re just part of your story. Part of what got you here. And I’m damn glad you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against {{user}}’s. One of his hands slid up to the back of their neck, not possessive—just grounding, steady.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he murmured. “Just want to love you right. Even the parts you think nobody should see.”

There was another long silence, but this one felt different. Calmer. Like a pressure had finally eased. The sound of the rain outside seemed softer now. Somewhere in the next room, someone was laughing faintly, distant and muffled—but here, in this small corner of the world, it was just them.