"Amauri," I interrupt gently, catching his eye. "Can you give Massimo a minute? He's probably going to want to take a shower."
He considers this, glancing at Massimo, then at me. "Sure. Yeah." He brightens. "But don't forget about Hammie."
"I won't," Massimo promises.
For a heartbeat or two, an awkward silence ensues, then Massimo excuses himself to take a shower. I sigh in relief that he caught my cue. I give him a minute, then make an excuse to Amauri and follow. This is the best way to talk alone for a few minutes.
When I step into Massimo's suite, he isn't there. But I can hear the shower. Steam curls into the bedroom, warm and faintly scented, and before I can stop myself—before common sense catches up—I follow the sound.
Really? I think.Really?He must not have understood the cue that I wanted to talk. The shower was just a ruse. I push the bathroom door open.
And freeze.
"Oh my God—you'renaked," I blurt, heat rushes straight to my face. Massimo whirls, startled, his eyes flash wide for half a second before instinct kicks in. "Shit—" He reaches for a towel, grabbing it off the rack and wrapping it around his waist in one sharp movement. "Didn't you—Jenna, get out."
But it's too late. I saw.
Not him—him—but what his body carries.
Scars.
So many of them.
Long ones. Jagged ones. Pale seams cut across muscle and skin like a map of violence. His shoulder. His ribs. His side. Marks that don't fade because they were never meant to.
"Massimo," I breathe, the word slips out without permission.
His jaw locks. "Get out," he hisses, turning slightly, angling his body away from me like he can undo what I've already seen. Giving me a view of more scars on his side. I take a step closer.
"Was that…" My voice wavers. "Was that because of the accident?"
He reaches for the towel, pulling it tighter, trying to cover what can't be hidden. "I don't need your pity," he snaps. "Get. Out."
"What happened?" I ask softly. "What did they do to you?"
That stops him. Not because he wants it to, but because the question lands somewhere deeper than anger. He exhales sharply, hands braced on the counter now, shoulders rigid.
"You weren't supposed to see this," he mutters.
I don't touch him. I don't crowd him. I just stand there, heart in my hands, staring at the evidence of everything he never told me.
"I thought you left," I say quietly. "And all that time you were?—"
"Stop," he cuts in, voice rough. "I survived. That's all you need to know."
But his reflection in the mirror tells a different story. This isn't about survival. It's about what it cost him. Finally, I understand that the man who walked back into my life didn't just lose ten years. He paid for them in flesh and blood.
"I'm not here to pity you," I assure him gently. "I just… didn't know."
He finally looks at me. For a split second, the anger fractures.
Then he turns away.
"Get out, Jenna," he says again, quieter now. "Please."
I back out slowly, closing the door behind me with shaking hands. But the image stays with me. So does the knowledge that whatever we're rebuilding now stands on scars, not ashes.
Fuck.Shetoldme to take a shower. The realization hits as I brace my hands on the sink and lean my forehead against the mirror; the steam is starting to fog the glass, almost as if it's trying to hide me from myself.
