Then it’s gone—buried behind that cold mask—but it’s too late.
I saw.
And I can’t unsee it.
23
MATTEO
I knowshe’s there before I see her.
The punching bag swings from the last hit, leather groaning against chains, and I go still. My lungs burn. Sweat drips down my spine, tracing the old burn scars.
I could’ve put a shirt on. Almost did.
But I didn’t.
We’re living together now. She’ll see me in the pool, catch me changing, see me after a shower. The scars aren’t going anywhere. Neither is the truth stamped into my skin.
So maybe I’m testing her. Need to know what she’ll do when she sees the map of every cigarette Scott ever stubbed out on my back. Whether the disgust comes now or later.
Either way, at least I’ll know.
I stare at the concrete floor. Count the cracks. Breathe.
Then I turn around.
Sierra’s face is hard to read in the dim light of the hallway. I wait for it. The sharp inhale. The step backward. The pity that’s worse than disgust because at least disgust is honest.
She crosses the distance between us.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Her hand comes up, and I brace for the flinch I’ll feel when her fingers make contact with ruined skin.
The touch is light. A fingertip tracing one of the oldest scars, between my shoulder blades where the skin puckers and pulls.
I jerk away from her, but it’s pure reflex.
“Sorry.” She pulls her hand back. “Did I hurt you?”
The question is so fucking absurd that I almost laugh. She’s a foot shorter than me. Asking if she hurt me.
“No.” The word scrapes out of me. “It’s old. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
A lie. Not physically. But every other way that matters.
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Matteo.”
“It’s old news, Sierra. Leave it.”
I grab my shirt from the bench. She catches my wrist before I can pull it on. Her grip is light. I could break it without thinking. But I don’t move.
“Please.”
I could walk away. Should walk away. Keep this shit buried where it belongs.
