"I do." The words come out rough. "Goddess, I do. But Charity, if I take this off, you're going to see things. Things I haven't shown you yet."
Her brow furrows. "What things?"
How do I explain? That my body is a map of violence. That every inch of skin tells a story I've beentrying to bury since I woke up and discovered that I’m a free man. That once she sees, she'll know, and I can't unknow her knowing.
"Scars," I say finally. "A lot of them."
"I don't care about scars." Her fingers tighten on the fabric. "I want to see you. All of you."
"You say that now." I close my eyes, remembering other times. Other people who looked at me and saw only the damage. "But these aren't normal scars, Charity. They're… they'll make you ask questions I'm not sure I'm ready to answer."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Are you ashamed of them?"
"No." The answer comes instantly, because it's true. I survived. That's nothing to be ashamed of. "But I'm afraid of what you'll think when you see them. What you'll think of me."
Her hands move from my shirt to my face, cradling it with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. "Nothing you show me is going to change how I feel about you. Nothing."
"You don't know that."
"I do." She leans forward, presses her forehead to mine. "I know you, Draco. Even though we’ve only known each other a handful of days, I know you're kind and patient and you brought me a dog because you knew I was lonely. I know you teach me magic tricks and city survival and how to be brave." Her voice drops. "Whatever these scars are, whatever they mean—they're part of your story. AndI want to know your story."
I should still stop this. Should wait until we're not already naked and desperate for each other. Should tell her while we're clothed and clear-headed, and I have some chance of maintaining dignity if she rejects me.
But I'm so tired of hiding. So tired of being ashamed of surviving. I told her I wasn’t ashamed, and I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m so tired of keeping the ugliest parts of myself locked away where no one can see them.
And she's looking at me like she actually means it. Like nothing I could show her would make her turn away.
I should stop her. Should slow this down before we cross a line we can't uncross. But her hands are already pulling the fabric up again, and I make a choice—maybe the bravest one I've ever made.
I lift my arms and let her drag it over my head.
The shirt hits the floor.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then her breath catches—a small, sharp sound that cuts through me like a blade.
And everything changes.
Her eyes go wide as she takes in my chest, my ribs, my shoulders. The scars are everywhere—white ridges, angry marks, the map of survival carved into my skin over years of fighting.
"These…" Her fingertips hover over one of the thickest scars, just below my collarbone. "Draco, these aren't accidents.”
She goes very still. Too still. I reach for the throw blanket and place it over her, something soft to anchor her while the ground shifts under her.
“They're—" Her breath hitches as understanding dawns. "What happened to you?"
My throat locks. I want to push her hand away, want to invent a story, but she deserves truth.
"I fought," I rasp. The words scrape raw. "Not in wars. In… arenas."
Her eyes blink rapidly, as if trying to process. "Arenas? Like—boxing? Underground fights?"
"No." The word is gravel. I force myself to meet her gaze. "For blood. For sport. For survival."
She pulls her hand back slightly, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"I don't understand. How would you… when would you…"
