His fingers hovered over the silvery line on her thigh, a faint ridge from an old surgery, and he hesitated, half-expecting her to shift away, to close off like she had with others. But she didn’t. Her breath stayed steady, her gaze calm as he brushed his thumb over the scar, and when he started to pull back, afraid he’d crossed a line, she wrapped her hand around his wrist and pressed it firmer against her skin.
“Not going to break,” she said, her voice low, and then she tugged him closer, his chest hitting hers, until he could feel the steady thrum of her heartbeat. This wasn’t just tolerance. It was trust—letting him see the parts of her that weren’t smooth, unmarked, perfect, and daring him to love them anyway. He’d seen the way she covered up in swimsuit season, how she avoided short sleeves, but here, with his hand on that scar, she was unapologetic.
He leaned in, kissing the scar gently, and she sighed, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Been waiting a long time for someone to not act like they’re touching broken glass,” she admitted, and he realized this was more than physical. It was acceptance—of the past, of the body that had carried her through it, of the fact that scars were just stories written on skin.
She pulled him closer still, until there was no space between them, and he understood. Flinching would have been easy. Pulling him in? That was courage. And he’d spend the rest of the night proving he was worthy of it.