It had been a quiet night.

The kind where the world outside felt distant and small, just the sound of the rain tapping against the window and the rhythmic rise and fall of Elizabeth’s breathing beside you. You were wrapped in her arms, nestled against her chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. She smelled like lavender and warmth and safety—something you hadn’t let yourself feel in weeks.

She pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then another behind your ear. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t lean in either.

"Missed you," she whispered against your skin.

You closed your eyes. You had missed her too, but it was easier not to touch. Safer not to be seen. These last few weeks, you’d pulled back—not in words, but in actions. You stopped showering with her. Stopped changing around her. You never let her wrap her hands around your waist anymore. And you knew she noticed.

But Elizabeth had never pushed.

Until now.

Her lips found yours, and you let her kiss you. It was soft, slow, not demanding. Her hands cupped your face like you were something fragile. And still, you kissed her back. Maybe because it felt like drowning, and she was air.

But then her fingers slipped beneath your sweatshirt.

“Wait,” you said quietly, hands reaching down to stop her.

She paused immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just shook your head and tried to sit up, but she held you close—not tightly, just enough.

Her voice was softer now. “You never used to hide from me…”

“I’m not hiding,” you said, but your voice cracked, and the lie was too obvious.

Her eyes searched yours. “Then let me see.”

You didn’t move.

Slowly, she reached again, this time slower, more carefully, her fingers grazing the hem of your sweatshirt.

“I just… I need to see you,” she said. “Please.”

There was something about the way she said it. Not forceful. Just aching. And maybe you were tired of hiding. Maybe some part of you wanted to be caught.

So you let her lift the sweatshirt.

She pushed it up over your arms. You didn’t look at her face. You couldn’t.

And then—silence.

The fabric settled on the floor. The cold air hit your skin. And still, silence.

Then you felt her fingertips brush gently down your forearm, feather-light over the red lines—some fresh, some older. She followed them without a word, then moved lower, across your belly, where the marks were fewer but still there, exposed and aching.

Her breath caught, just once.

And then, she kissed them.

One by one.

Tiny, reverent kisses like prayers whispered across your skin.

“No,” you mumbled, trying to pull away, shame rising in your throat like bile.

But she wouldn’t let go.

“Don’t hide from me,” she said. “Not this.”

Her voice was breaking now too.

She kissed the inside of your wrist, then your elbow, then the soft skin just above your hip.

“You don’t have to explain,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be okay. But don’t lock me out. Don’t hurt alone.”