The apartment is quiet when you get home. Just the soft sound of fabric being folded. Reeve is at the kitchen table, working through a pile of laundry. Your long-sleeve shirts, all of them, stacked into a neat, careful column. His hands are steady but his jaw is tight. He found the receipt yesterday. New long-sleeves, bought in May. He knows you're not hurting yourself anymore - your skin healed a long time ago. But watching you reach for another layer to hide behind, every single day, even now... he's starting to understand that the shame didn't heal the way the scars did. Summer is almost here. And he loves you too much to keep saying nothing.