Wraith stares at me, his blue eyes searching mine. He looks freaking terrified. His massive hands lift between us, signing stiffly.
Y-O-U... W-O-U-L-D... R-U-N.
I shake my head firmly. "I won't run."
A-N-D... S-C-R-E-A-M.
"I won't scream either," I promise him, holding his gaze steadily. "Wraith, you can trust me. I won't look. And... I've already seen some of your face, remember? When your mask slipped earlier?"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I see the impact they have on him. His eyes widen, pupils constricting to pinpricks in a sea of terrified blue. It's like watching someone's worst nightmare unfold in real-time.
Oh god. I'd hoped that would reassure him. But there's raw panic in his eyes as his hands lift again, the signs jerky and unsteady. A few are aborted halfway through before he pauses as if to ground himself before signing more slowly this time.
H-O-W... M-U-C-H... D-I-D... Y-O-U... S-E-E?
I hesitate, torn between not wanting to cause him more distress but knowing I need to be honest with him. "Maybe... a quarter of it?" I answer carefully. "The right side of your face, where your... where your cheek should?—"
T-E-E-T-H?he signs, the movements so sharp and jerky I almost miss it.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Yes," I say softly, hating that I have to confirm his fears but knowing lying to him would only make things worse in the long run.
A strangled growl tears from his throat, a sound of pure anguish that makes me flinch. His hands begin to shake so violently he can't form coherent signs anymore. One palm presses against his masked lower face, as if making sure the fabric is still in place, while the other digs into his hair.
"Wraith—" I start, trying to move closer to him, but he's already getting up and moving toward the window. Every line of his body is coiled tight with the need to flee.
He's having a panic attack. And he's going to bolt.
"Wraith, wait. Please." Without thinking, I reach for him, my hand settling gently on his forearm.
He freezes at my touch, muscles rock-hard with tension beneath my fingers. His eyes lock with mine, filled with such agony that it physically hurts to look at him.
"It's okay," I murmur, keeping my voice soft and steady. "It doesn't change anything. It doesn't matter what you look like. Not to me."
He stares at me, disbelief warring with desperate hope in those tortured blue eyes.
I run my palm up and down his arm in what I hope is a soothing gesture, feeling the scars there that I hadn't noticed before. Similar ones mark his hands, concentrated on his palms—rough, textured just like the scars on his collarbone and chest, but not as intensely damaged. He flinches when my fingers brush over them, but he doesn't pull away.
"It's okay," I repeat softly. "I'm still here, Wraith. You're still you. I didn't run then, and I'm not running now."
Emboldened by his stillness, I reach up with my other hand. I hesitate for just a moment, giving him time to stop me, but he remains frozen, watching me with those haunted eyes. Gently, I stroke his dark hair. It's surprisingly soft. His eyes close briefly at my touch, a shudder running through his massive frame.
"You don't have to show me anything you're not comfortable with," I continue, still stroking his hair, carding my fingers through the choppy layers. "But I want you to be able to eat with me. And I promise, Wraith, IpromiseI won't look."
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he leans into my touch. A low, shuddering sigh rushes out of him.
He's touch-starved, I realize.
Just like me.
He opens his eyes again to watch me for what feels like an eternity, those blue eyes searching mine for any sign of deception or disgust. Finding none, he finally gives a small, hesitant nod.
"You want me to turn around?" I clarify, relieved. But I want to make absolutely sure I understand what he's agreeing to.
Another nod, this one more definite.
"Okay," I say, giving his arm a final reassuring squeeze before shifting on the couch. "How about I lean on you? With my back to you?"
He nods a third time.
