The night is quiet, the kind that settles between two people who’ve known each other just long enough to stop pretending.

You’re sprawled on the couch in Sebastian’s apartment, feet tucked under you, the hum of an old record playing something jazzy and low. A half-finished glass of red wine rests on the coffee table. Your hoodie lies forgotten on the armrest, and you’re in a faded tank top now—comfortable, relaxed. Exposed.

That’s when he sees it.

“You never told me you had a tattoo,” Sebastian says softly from his spot beside you.

You glance at him over your shoulder, already knowing which one he means. “Didn’t I?”

He shakes his head, eyes lingering—not in a crude way, but like he’s trying to read it. “It’s Medusa, right? The snakes… the eyes. It’s—damn, it’s beautiful.”

You pause, then let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Most people just ask if I’m into Greek mythology and then make some joke about turning people to stone.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

He hesitates, then leans in slightly, his voice low. “Because I know Medusa wasn’t the monster in the story. She was made into one.”

That catches you off guard. You study his face for a moment—no teasing, no pity. Just understanding. Warmth.

You turn away, looking down at your hands. “I got it after… a rough time. I needed a reminder. Not to be ashamed of surviving. Not to let people rewrite what happened to me.”

There’s a long silence. Then you feel him shift beside you, a gentle weight of his fingers brushing against your shoulder, tracing the ink lightly, reverently.

“You never had to scare me to be heard,” Sebastian murmurs. “I see you. I always have.”

You don’t say anything right away. You’re too busy trying not to fall apart at the sound of that.