She always traced them when she thought I was asleep.

Soft fingertips ghosting over the jagged lines and pale ridges that littered my skin like a roadmap of every fight I’d ever been too stubborn to back down from. She’d start at the one on my shoulder—an old break gone wrong, a stupid tackle, a dumber decision—and work her way down. I never stopped her.

Not because I liked the scars. But because I liked the way she touched them. Like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. Like they were stories. Wounds she’d gladly learn by heart.

Tonight, I caught her.

She was curled into my side, the duvet slipping down her bare back, her hand resting just over the one near my ribs—a burn from something I didn’t talk about much. I could feel her gaze, even in the dark. The way it lingered.

“That one hurt?” she whispered, barely a breath.

I opened my eyes, turned to her. “They all did.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity. Just leaned in and pressed her lips to it. Slow. Careful. Like she was trying to kiss the pain away years too late.

“That’s not how this works, baby,” I muttered, voice rough.

“Maybe not,” she whispered back, “but let me love the parts of you you won’t.”

And fuck—how do you argue with that?

I let her keep going. Let her mouth map me out, kiss after kiss, until it felt less like worship and more like healing. Like she was stitching something closed with nothing but touch and heart.

“You’re not broken, Joey.” Her voice cracked a bit when she said it, and I knew it wasn’t for me—it was for her. For the boy I used to be.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

I just pulled her close, breathed her in, and let her do what no one else ever had— Love the damage like it was worth something.