He laughs.
“I diduseit,” he points out. “Before... this.”
“Fair point.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. In the dim light, his scar is less angry. Softer somehow. “Can I ask you something?”
He considers. “Depends on the question.”
I trace the twisted tissue along his jawline with one finger. He goes very still under my touch.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly. “Still?”
“No.” His voice is rough. “Not physically. Not anymore.”
“And... non-physically?” I press.
He catches my hand, pressing my palm flat against his cheek. “Every. Single. Day.”
The honesty in that answer steals my breath.
“I’m sorry,”I whisper.
“Don’t be.” He turns his head to kiss my palm. “It made me who I am. For better or worse.”
“I thinkbetter,” I say before I can stop myself.
His expression flashes between vulnerable and surprised and almost pained, all in the span of a second. And then he’s pulling me down for another kiss, and this one is different. Slower. Softer. More tender.
When we break apart, he says, “You’re ticklish.”
I frown. “What? I am not.”
His fingers find my ribs and I dissolve into completely undignified giggles that I try to muffle against his chest.
“Liar,” he says, grinning now.
“Okay fine,” I say. “Maybe a little! But if you tell anyone—”
“Who would I tell?” His expression shifts. “I don’t even know your last name.”
Right.
“Dawson,” I say. “Bree Dawson.”
“Briana?”
“That’s right. How—”
He shrugs. “Bree felt more like a nickname.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you always this perceptive or am I just really obvious?”
He considers that. “You’re obvious about some things. Guarded about others.”
I study him. “And which one am I being right now?”
He pulls me closer, his hand spanning my lower back. “Guarded. But trying not to be.”
Well fuck.
