Don't understand.
Can't fathom this reaction.
I search her face for any sign of deception. Any hint that she's forcing herself to remain calm. That she's fighting the natural instinct to flee from the horror that is my face, even if she can't have seen much.
But there's nothing.
No terror in her scent. No trembling. No flinching when she looks at me. Just steady acceptance that I don't know how to process.
My hands lift, signing slowly, jerkily.
Y-O-U… S-A-W.
She nods, not breaking eye contact. "Just a little. It's okay."
I shake my head.
"Yes, it is," she insists, her voice stronger now. Then she lifts her hand, slowly, deliberately, giving me plenty of time to pull away. To stop what she's doing.
I don't move.
Can'tmove.
"I'm not going to take it off," she reassures me softly. "I would never do that without your permission. I just want to make sure you know it's okay."
Her fingers brush against my mask, feather-light, just below where it covers my right cheek. The exact spot where it had slipped. Where she had seen what's beneath the thin fabric.
I flinch involuntarily.
A small, sharp motion that I can't control.
A lifetime of conditioning.
But she doesn't pull away. Her touch remains gentle, patient.
My throat constricts painfully, my scars aching again. The places where the acid ate through skin and tissue, damaging my vocal cords beyond repair. Stealing my voice. Leaving me with nothing but growls and half-learned signs to try to communicate the storm inside me.
She seems to sense the conflict raging within me. Her hand drops away from my mask, but she doesn't pull back. Doesn't create distance. Instead, she settles more comfortably against me, letting her head rest on my shoulder as she hugs me tighter.
In this moment, in this room, with this omega in my arms, something has changed. Some barrier I thought impenetrable has been crossed.
My arms tighten around her fractionally, an instinctive response I can't suppress. A need to hold her closer. To protect what has been entrusted to me. This precious, impossible trust that I've done nothing to earn.
She is so brave.
Even braver than I thought.
Another growl breaks the silence, so faint most people wouldn't notice. But I hear it clearly. Her stomach protesting its emptiness. The sound yanks me from my thoughts. I risk a glance down at her.
"Sorry," she mumbles, looking up at me. "I'm actually starving."
Fuck.
She needs better than microwaved noodles and soup.
My fingers move in the air between us.
T-A-K-E-O-U-T?
