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It takes months for his shirt to come off in front of her. Weeks and weeks of hand-holding and kisses, of letting her touch roam just past his midriff before his heart races too quickly and he pulls away with an apology. Days of standing in front of the mirror with a lump in his throat, furious at his own inability to accept himself.
“It’s okay, Jack.” Lynette says, voice soothing. Effortlessly gentle. “There's no rush.”
She's sitting on his bed, cross-legged as he paces backwards and forwards in front of her. He wants to tell her just how sorry he is for all of this, but his mouth is suddenly dry and his throat constricted. His own cowardice makes him feel sick.
“ Jack . I promise it's alright, sweetheart.”
He pauses, chest heaving, and looks her in the eyes. “I don't… I don't know why I'm so scared.”
Sneering glares, the disgusted curling of his last girlfriend’s lip when she saw the scars, the cold rejection in his father's eyes, the-
“It’s okay.” Lynette repeats. “There's no pressure at all. We can sit here and watch a movie if you'd like? How about a rerun of the Muppet show?”
He looses a half-laugh, half-sob at her simple kindness, eyes stinging. There's a moment- only a moment- where he considers nodding and settling back onto the bed with her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and breathing in the scent of her shampoo.
Instead, he reaches down for the hem of his shirt, and slowly lifts it up and over his head.
He waits, eyes squeezed tightly shut, for the gentle sigh of disappointment, or the more bitter sting of disgust that he's been so used to receiving all his adult life. For the result of so many years of anti-trans messaging, of campaigns against ‘mutilation’ and ‘unnaturalness’ to come crashing down on his shoulders and bring him to his knees.
The next thing he's aware of, though, is the sound of the bed creaking, and tentative footsteps in his direction. A hand gently brushing against his cheek.
“Jack? You can open your eyes, sweetheart.”
It takes a few seconds for his body to catch up to the requests of his mind, so afraid as he is of being met with abandonment. When he does open his eyes, Lynette is looking at him with the most genuine expression of adoration he's ever seen.
“Thank you.” she murmurs. “For trusting me.”
He swallows thickly, nostrils flaring. Watches her movements with all the subdued wariness of a wild dog being approached by a kind hand for the first time.
She clears her throat. “Can I- can I touch you?”
God, yes, his mind screams. Please, somebody hold me like I'm worth holding.
He nods.
Her hands move first to his hips, the pads of her thumbs rubbing against the jut of his bones soothingly while her eyes never leave his. Then, her touch glides upwards, along his ribcage, past the point of no return, where it pauses, her gaze now questioning.
“Is this okay?” she murmurs. “For me to touch your chest?”
He blinks quickly, the tears like dew on his eyelashes. Nods again.
“Are you sure? It's okay if you're not ready, Jack. We have all the time in the world.”
“ I… please.”
With this verbal confirmation, she gradually moves her hands across his skin, giving him ample time to change his mind before she at last reaches the scars that he's been so terrified to reveal all these years. No doubt she can feel his pulse racing even now. The fear is instinctual.
Her thumbs brush against the raised, still slightly discoloured skin where his stitches used to reside.
Her touch is oh-so-soft.
“Oh, Jack.” she whispers. “God, I think you're the most beautiful man in the world.”
It's at these words that the sobs start coming, so violent his shoulders tremble, the breath easing out of his lungs with all the relief and love he feels. He doesn't resist her touch when her arms wrap around him this time, nor shy away from her kisses- on his eyelids, on his nose, even on the scars themselves.
“You’re so beautiful, Jack.”
She leads him gently back to the bed, and he flops back against the headboard, pulling her into his lap as their lips meet again.
“ So fucking handsome.”
Her hands on his skin feels like being alive. Like what love is supposed to feel like.
“ God, I love you, Jack. I love you so much.”
He sobs. He holds her.
He lives.