I stood in front of the mirror, towel still clinging to me like it had a job interview.
My fingers traced the raised edges across my back—the roadmap to every fight I never asked for and every survival I never chose. These scars? They weren’t just reminders. They were declarations. Proof I made it out.
But tonight… they weren’t just mine.
Because something in me—something raw and trembling and terrified—started to wonder what it would look like to let someone else see them.
Not with pity.
Not with questions.
But with reverence.
When I thought about Jace, I didn’t see him flinch. I didn’t imagine horror. I imagined restraint—his jaw tight, fists clenched, the urge to protect bleeding out of him in silence. I imagined his control slipping, his hands ghosting over my spine like he was
