“Rowan.”
His voice is quiet. I turn anyway, because pretending I don’t see what he sees feels worse than facing it.
He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still fixed there, but his expression isn’t what I expect. There’s no recoil or discomfort. He doesn’t make an effort to politely look away.
“Don’t,” I say automatically, my voice tightening as I try to step past him. “You don’t have to?—”
He reaches out and catches my wrist gently, stopping me. He applies just enough pressure to calm me.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I never want you to hide from me.”
I swallow. My throat burns.
“It’s—” I stop, frustrated. “It’s not exactly something people admire.”
His grip tightens, refusing to let go. He steps closer, close enough now that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of his presence.
“It’s my favourite part of you.”
I laugh once, sharp and brittle. “That’s not even funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
My eyes sting. I hate that it’s happening. Hate that this—this—is what breaks me. Not the past catching up with me in ugly, relentless waves, but the way he’s looking at something I learned to hate. And accepting it.
“This is the worst part of me,” I say quietly. “The part I can’t erase. The part everyone sees first.”
He lifts my hand slowly, bringing it to rest against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm-it’s a steady drumbeat.
“This,” he whispers softly, “is proof that you survived.”
I shake my head. “It’s proof of everything that came afterward.”
He doesn’t argue with that. Doesn’t try to spin it. He just steps closer, close enough that my back nearly touches the counter.
“There is nothing about you,” his voice is low and certain, “nothing, Rowan, that I don’t accept. That I don’t want. That I don’t love without condition.”
Love.
The word hangs there, heavy and terrifying. I think I may have misheard him.
My chest tightens, breath hitching despite my effort to keep it together. Tears blur my vision, uninvited and humiliating.
He lifts his hand to cup my jaw, thumb brushing softly under my eye, catching the tear before it can fall.
“You don’t have to be whole for me,” he adds. “You don’t have to be unmarked.”
I close my eyes then, because I can’t hold his gaze anymore. Because the way he says it makes me feel seen in a way that hurts almost as much as it heals.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his chest, breathing him in. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation, holding me close to him.
And for the first time, standing there in his bathroom with my scars bare and my defenses gone, I don’t feel like something that needs to be fixed.
I feel… loved.
37
