#back acne

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This month marks six months since you officially started dating Zayne.

Yes, the Dr. Zayne Li.

Honestly, you never thought it would happen. How could you? You were convinced the man had little to no interest in you. But apparently… you’re not great at reading people. Fair enough.

Things have been going well—really well. You’ve been intimate, taken your time, found your rhythm together. For a six-month relationship, the pace feels right.

But there’s one problem.

Well, two, but they’ve kind of merged into one.

How can you be close to someone when you're constantly hiding your skin?

That’s the question, isn’t it?

You have back acne. It’s been there for years—comes and goes—but of course, right now, it’s stubbornly staying. You’ve been trying to take care of it between work and your limited free time, but it won’t budge. The stretch marks across your lower back don’t help either. What a combo.

Deep down, you know Zayne wouldn’t judge you. He’s sweet—so much sweeter than you ever imagined someone like him could be. Gentle. Attentive.

He treats you like you matter. Like you're enough.

And yet… there’s still this voice in your head.

Surely, someone like you isn’t meant to be beside someone like him.

You sigh, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You press your lips together, then tug your shirt back on. The familiar fabric drapes over your back like armor. It’s fine. You’re fine.

Tonight, he’s coming over for dinner. You have the day off, but Zayne’s still on shift at the hospital. You’ve been looking forward to seeing him—you always do. But the thought of him being here, close again, makes your chest twist with something sharp.

You’ve done a good job hiding everything so far. Long shirts every time. Always shifting his hands away, subtly redirecting him when you're making out. A breath pulled just short before things get too exposed.

Zayne never pushes. He’s patient—so damn patient. He matches your pace without question. You’re grateful for that.

But you’re also… frustrated.

At yourself. Not him.

You want more—his hands, his closeness.

You want to stop hiding.

But every time you get close to letting go, your skin feels like a siren blaring out warnings. Don’t look. Don’t touch. Don’t stay.

You even avoided going to the beach last weekend, even after Zayne hinted he'd love to take you, and the weather practically begged for it.

Another excuse. Another layer of armor.

Your phone buzzes on the bed. You grab it without thinking.

Zayne💕: I’ll be off in an hour. Should I bring dessert, or are you cooking something dangerously sweet again?

You can’t help it—you smile, thumbs already moving as you flop back against the mattress.

You: You say that, but you’re the one who keeps asking for it. Bring some dessert, please. I didn’t make any today ☹️

Zayne💕: Guilty. I’ll bring that tiramisu we had last week. See you in an hour.

You grin, kicking your legs a little.

You: Yessss! Thank you, Dr. Zayne. Can’t wait!

Zayne💕: Hmm. Seems like someone’s more excited about the dessert than me.

You: 😉

Zayne💕: 😳

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you swing your legs off the bed and stretch. The nerves are still there, a quiet weight in your chest—but somehow, just a few texts from him help ease it a little. He always does that.

You pocket your phone and head to the kitchen to start dinner prep, humming to yourself. You already cleaned earlier, double-checked the lighting, lit that one candle he said smelled like your shampoo. It’s ridiculous how much you’ve prepared—and yet, not enough to stop the flutter of doubt in your chest.

Still, he's coming. And he’s bringing tiramisu.

That alone is enough to keep your hands busy and your heart stubbornly hopeful.

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Dinner is long gone, the dishes are forgotten in the sink

You’re both curled up on the couch now, the lights dimmed, soft music humming in the background. The tiramisu sits between you—Zayne insisted on using actual plates, even though you said you’d just eat it straight from the container. He’s like that. Always a little extra, but quietly so.

You take another bite and let it melt on your tongue with a soft sigh.

“God, this is so unfair,” you murmur, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Why is it better the second time?”

Zayne hums in agreement beside you. “Because now you know what to expect. Anticipation makes it sweeter.”

You glance at him. “That’s very poetic of you.”

He offers a small shrug, with a teasing curve at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been influenced by someone lately.”

You roll your eyes but your smile lingers, warm and easy. This part—being with him like this, relaxed and laughing—it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s what comes after that gets harder.

You don’t notice at first when the conversation starts to quiet. When the space between words stretches, softens. His hand, resting on the couch beside you, brushes yours. Not entirely by accident.

“You look tired,” he says gently.

You shrug, eyes flicking away. “Didn’t sleep well.”

He doesn’t push for a reason. He never does. He just nods and sets his empty plate on the coffee table before leaning back, one arm casually draped along the back of the couch. His fingertips graze your shoulder lightly—barely there.

And you freeze. Just for a second.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and pretends not to. That’s another thing about Zayne—he gives you space, even when you don’t ask.

You place your plate beside his and sit back down, a little closer this time. His arm brushes yours again, and you can feel your heart ticking faster in your chest.

You want to lean in. Let him pull you close like he’s done so many times before. Let yourself be held. Let the rest of you be seen.

But your mind runs ahead—faster than your body can keep up.

He’ll feel it if you do.

Your back. Your skin.

The places you’ve worked so carefully to shield.

The places you still flinch from in the mirror.

The parts someone like him shouldn’t have to see.

He turns to you, just a little. His eyes are soft, unreadable in the low light.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says. Not accusing. Just noticing.

You swallow. “Just… tired.”

His gaze lingers a little longer, like he’s reading the silence behind your words.

Then, softly—“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches.

You’ve kissed before—many times, even—but tonight, something about the way he asks makes your chest tighten. It’s not the kiss itself.

It’s what it might lead to. What you might let slip if you let your guard down even a little.

So simple. So gentle.

And somehow, still—it feels like the hardest thing in the world.

You nod.

He shifts closer. His arm slips around your shoulders, slow and familiar, like muscle memory. You lean into him, fitting easily into his side. For a moment, you just breathe there.

Then he turns his head slightly. You meet his gaze—quiet, steady—and he kisses you.

You respond instinctively. Soft at first. Then deeper.

This is familiar, too. You know how his hand starts at your shoulder, how it trails down. How he tilts his head just so. How his thumb brushes your cheek before sliding down your arm, and—

His hand reaches your waist.

Still safe. No reason to pull away.

But then your thoughts wander—if he moves his hand just an inch higher—

So you kiss him harder, maybe to distract him. Maybe to distract yourself.

Then his hand shifts lower. Under the hem of your shirt. Cool fingers on bare skin.

It’s not unusual. He’s touched you here before. But you always redirected him before he could go further.

You always had a way of slipping away before he could feel too much.

A shift in position. A hand redirected. A teasing distraction.

You’ve made a habit out of staying one breath ahead of his touch.

But right now—his mouth is still on yours. Cool. Steady.

And you miss the beat.

Just one breath too slow.

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt.

Brushes over the curve of your waist.

Then lower.

His palm finds your back.

Right there.

Your skin prickles.

And you flinch.

Not a full-body jolt. Not enough to break the kiss.

But enough. Enough that he feels it.

His hand pauses.

So does his mouth.

The kiss stills—not cold, not pulled away, just… suspended.

You’re still close, lips barely apart, breath mingling. But the air between you shifts.

Goes still in a different way.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Zayne doesn't move. Doesn’t speak right away.

Then, quietly—“Did I…?”

“No. It’s not—”

Your voice is soft. Immediate.

Your hand finds his. Gently, you curl your fingers around it—almost like you’re holding it in place. But then you start to move it.

Not harshly. Not with rejection.

Just a quiet redirection, pulling it away from your back.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say again, your fingers are trembling.

He lets you move his hand. Let you have the space you’re asking for—without pulling further away. His hands curls around your, steadying, soothing.

He just waits.

And that’s the worst part. He’s so patient. So quiet. You almost wish he’d say something dumb just so you’d have something to deflect with. But he doesn’t. He just waits for you to speak on your own terms.

His hand rests quietly in yours now, and you sit there, still close. Still quiet.

And then—softly, like it costs you something—you speak.

“There’s a reason I always move your hands,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not because I don’t want you to touch me. I do. I really do. But there are… things I don’t want you to see.”

Zayne’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Like?” he asks gently.

You hesitate. Your grip on his hand tightens just a little.

Then you exhale—slow, steady—and shake your head.

“My back. It’s got acne. Stretch marks. The acne come and go. Sometimes they’re bad. I’ve tried everything to fix it but…” You trail off, eyes flicking away. “It’s stubborn. Like me.”

Your voice is brittle at the edges, but you don’t cry. You’re just tired—of hiding, of managing, of fearing the moment someone sees it.

“I know it’s not a big deal,” you add quickly. “But it is to me. I’ve always hated it. I’ve just gotten good at… redirecting.”

Zayne’s hand doesn’t move.

He doesn’t pull it back. Doesn’t press forward.

He just stays.

Not in hesitation—but in offering.

And somehow, that stillness feels louder than anything he could say.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at your back, or your skin, or anywhere that might make you flinch again.

He’s looking at you. Just you. His expression open, unguarded.

You don’t see pity there. Or discomfort.

Only the quiet patience that’s always been his default language with you.

You swallow.

“It’s stupid,” you say softly. “I know it’s not some tragic secret. People deal with worse. But whenever the thought of you seeing it, it’s like my body goes into alarm mode. Like it remembers I’m not supposed to be touched or seen there.”

Zayne shifts slightly, his thumb brushing your knuckles in the space between words.

“Then we won’t rush it,” he says. “We’ll stay on this line. For as long as you need.” His voice steadies as he adds. “And it’s not stupid. It’s a perfectly normal way to feel.”

Something cracks in your chest.

Not pain—just the fragile shell you’ve worn too long, finally giving way, little by little.

Your voice is small when it comes out again.

“I don’t want to need to wait for so long.”

A pause.

You glance down at your hands together. Yours still trembling slightly, his steady.

“I want to be okay with you seeing it. Because it’s you. And if I can’t be myself with you...”

You trail off. The rest finishes itself in your head.

Then—before the fear can pull you back under—you lift your free hand.

Slowly.

Quietly.

You hook a finger under the hem of your shirt.

Zayne doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t react at all, actually. He just watches, his gaze soft and unshifting.

You breathe in once. Twice.

Then, gently, you lift your shirt—just enough to expose the lower curve of your back. The stretch of skin you’ve guarded for months. The part you’ve always made sure stayed hidden beneath fabric and distraction.

You can’t look at him.

Not right away.

You keep your gaze lowered, bracing for—what, exactly? You’re not even sure.

But when Zayne finally does move, it’s only his hand.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Doesn’t lean in or whisper sweet reassurances.

He just moves his hand to rest near yours, not on the skin—but beside it.

Waiting again.

Letting you choose.

And this time… you do.

You shift your hand. Just a little. Enough to guide his to where yours had been.

Coolness meets skin.

His palm on the curve of your back. Bare. Still.

No flinch. No alarm.

Only your breath, held tight in your chest.

And his, steady and slow.

His thumb brushes across your skin. Gentle. Deliberate.

Like he’s touching something precious—not fragile.

“I see you,” he says, voice barely audible. “And I still want you. All of you.”

Your eyes sting.

You laugh softly, broken at the edges. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

Zayne’s smile is faint, tilted. “As long as it’s a good cry.”

You let out a breath—part laugh, part sigh—and turn toward him fully. He shifts with you, his hand brush against your skin.

Zayne leans forward, brushing his lips over your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this since the first time we kissed,” he murmurs, “but I never wanted to push.”

You feel his fingers brush against your back again, this time slower, going higher. More purposeful. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s feeling it now. Your skin, textured and scarred and real.

His hand rests there, steady and cool.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he says.

The words settle between you, warm and gentle, but they don’t erase the tightness still coiled inside you. You swallow, your chest heavy with things unsaid. His hand on your back grounds you, but the weight of your fears hasn’t vanished. Not yet.

“I’ll try,” you whisper, a quiet truth hanging in the air.

Zayne’s thumb brushes over your skin, deliberate but patient. He doesn’t push for more—he just stays with you.

“Whenever you're ready,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here.”

The room feels still, filled with the soft, steady rhythm of his breath and the quiet thrum of your own. For now, it’s enough. To just be here. To take it slow.

And as his hand stays on your back, his thumb begins to move—soft, slow circles, like he’s tracing calm into your skin. The motion is steady. Unrushed. And somehow, it makes the silence feel safer.

You feel a flicker of hope—a small, quiet thing—that maybe, one day, you’ll be able to let go of the rest.

But for now, in this moment, you’re not alone.

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Notes