ANNA'S POV
The bathroom had a lock. Six years in this house, and that lock was the only thing in it that still felt like mine.
I turned the knob and stepped out.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, the lamp catching his shoulders and the line of his collarbone, scars I'd never seen — pale marks across his ribs, one darker and low on his hip. His hands rested on his knees. He didn't move when the door opened.
I looked away. Too fast. My eyes went to the floor, the wall, anywhere that wasn't him.
"Are you shy?"
Low, not mocking — curious.
"No," I said.
"Then look at me."
I didn't.
"Anna." Softer now. "Look at me."
I lifted my eyes to his face, his shoulders, the line of his chest — and stopped.
No lower.
"You're not looking at all of me," he said.
"I'm looking at
