White gauze under the collar of his shirt.
At first I think it’s nothing. A bandage. A scrape. Something from last night, maybe. Then he moves, and the edge of it pulls.
Too low.
Too wide.
My eyes narrow. “What isthat?”
He doesn’t answer.
His silence cuts through me like another betrayal.
I lunge forward, grabbing at his collar before I can stop myself. The gun stays trained on him in one hand while the other yanks the fabric down.
White gauze. Clean. Fresh. Covering his chest in a patch that’s too deliberate to be random.
“Take it off,” I demand, voice shaking. “Show me what you did.”
He catches my wrist before I can rip the bandage away myself. His grip is firm but not cruel. It makes me want to shoot him more.
“Are you sure you want to see?”
My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. “Take it off.Now.”
His jaw tightens, but he releases my wrist, pulls off his shirt and slowly peels back the edge of his bandage. I catch a glimpse of raw, reddened skin beneath.
My stomach twists. “You tattooed yourself too?”
“Look at yours first.”
I shake my head, the gun wavering but not dropping. “No. Show me yours.”
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then he rips the bandage off in one quick motion.
My breath catches.
Raw letters slash across the blank space over his heart.
My name.
AYLA.
Angry and red and uneven against his skin, the cuts swollen at the edges, nothing like the clean precision of a tattoo. Hecarvedit there. Deliberately. Deep enough to scar.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, horror crawling through me. “You carved mynameinto your skin!”
“With your knife.” His fingers brush the edge of the wound. “It’ll scar.”
My breath hitches.
“Now you,” he says, voice flat but eyes burning into mine. “Look at what I’ve done to you.”
I shake my head again, unable to look away from my name etched into his skin. “You’re insane.”
“Look at yours.”
His tone leaves no room, and despite myself, despite the gun still in my hand, I hook two fingers under the edge of the clear film on my hip and yank.
