He takes another quick six punch of the bag, blowing a deep breath out through his pursed lips.

“The abuse started when I was just eight. I remember the first time I had to kneel on thorns until I learned that touching myself was a sin. And I was never to let anyone else touch me either. No kissing. No hugging. Not ever.”

His eyes meet mine, and I blink away the pooling tears. All I can think is that I first met him when he was seventeen. How had I not known then how recent this trauma was for him...and still is?

“I don’t believe their bullshit, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds, avoiding my stare. “Even then, I knew they were deranged. But that shit stuck.”

Quickly, he turns back to the bag. After a moment of watching him work, I step closer. I have myself convinced that if he’d just let me touch him, everything else would fall into place like dominoes. Then he could let himself be naked with me, then he could be inside of me. And then everything would be better.

I’m smarter than that. I know it’s not that easy. I realize there is deep-seated trauma that will take him years if not his entire life to work out with a professional, but there’s a nurturing part of me that is convinced if he just let me hold him, I could make his problems go away. We could work it out together.

“Rafe, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, stepping closer. My eyes are on his chest, the dark tattoos scattered across his skin. “You let the tattoo artists touch you,” I observe.

“He’s my best friend. The kind that doesn’t ask too many questions and always steps up when I need him to.”

When the room grows silent, and he watches me bite my lip, I feel him step closer.

“Put out your hand,” he commands, and like always, I listen. Holding my hand out, palm up, he takes it by the wrist. Flipping it over, he pulls me closer. With his eyes on my face, he gently lowers my hand to his chest.

My breath is caught in my throat. The skin under my fingers is cool from the moisture and soft. Touching his body has me feeling even more connected to him, and as he watches my eyes while I press my hand more firmly against him, a hunger builds for more.

“It’s not that I can’t let people touch me,” he says quietly. “I just don’t like it.”

My mouth has gone dry, so I wet my lips and nod. “I understand.”

He motions for my other hand, and I give it to him. He places it against his chest as well, and then scoops his hands around my waist and pulls me closer until our bodies are flush. I’m lost in those dark eyes, so full of angst, but I’m starting to see so much more there. Rafe’s walls are lowering for me, and I can spot the fear and vulnerability hidden behind them.