“Better than I have in weeks,” I said honestly.
He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Good.”
My gaze fell to his shoulder… and the faint pale scar that curved down toward his collarbone.
My hand moved before I even thought about it—fingertips lightly tracing the mark.
He stiffened—not pulling away, but not used to being touched there.
“Does it hurt?” I asked softly.
“No.”
A beat.
“Not anymore.”
I let my fingers trail lower, pausing at each faded scar—thin lines, one deeper, another faint like smoke. They weren’t disfiguring. They didn’t make him look broken.
They made him look lived-in. Survived.
“Will you tell me about them?” I whispered.
His eyes softened—just a fraction—but enough to show I’d touched something deeper than skin.
He exhaled slowly. “Some of them are from training. Some from missions. One from saving Trigger from himself.”
I smiled a little. “Of course.”
He caught my hand and brought it to his chest, resting it over his heartbeat.
Strong. Solid. Warm.
“This one,” I said quietly, brushing my thumb over a longer scar along his rib, “looks painful.”
“That was a knife,” he said. “Middle East. Years ago.”
My breath hitched. “You could’ve died.”
“Came close.”
He said it like it was just a fact. But there was something else beneath the words—something unspoken.
“You don’t talk about any of this,” I said.
“Most people don’t ask,” he replied. “Or they don’t want the real answer.”
“I do.”
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he lifted my hand and pressed a gentle kiss to my fingertips.
“You’re dangerous, Nora,” he murmured. “You make me want to say things I’ve never said out loud.”
My heart clenched at the raw honesty in his voice.
I slid closer until my forehead rested against his. “Maybe you should.”
