Page 13 of House of Clowns

"Hi," he mutters, words muffled by the bread at his lips.

I let out a chuckle, hugging the blanket higher, very aware of the sudden heat rising to my cheeks.

"Hi."

He's no longer hidden behind a painted face. His skin, smooth and bare, catches the light; pale as winter frost, his hair is slicked back, though a few rebellious strands fall across his brow. The piercing intensity of his icy blue eyes seems to bore into my skin, but behind them, there's warmth—a tug that pulls at me, softening the edges. A serrated scar carves down from his forehead, and slashes through his right eyebrow, tracing a line down to the middle of his cheek. There's also a pair of scars framing his lips—curving outwards in the near-perpetual dark smile. I find myself wondering what stories lie behind them if they were self-inflicted or branded there by someone else.

We are all scarred, secrets stitched across our skin in pieces of stories we're not willing to share yet.

He carefully placed the cup on the chair beside the empty bed, balancing the bread on top since he hadn't bothered with a plate. Then he sat down on the edge of my bed himself, his eyes on me with an unreadable expression. I felt his gaze trace over my face, pausing on each bruise and cut, and I couldn't tell if he was waiting for me to speak or just cataloging the damage.

The silence stretched, tension winding tighter between us until finally, I broke it.

"Is that for me?" I asked, nodding toward the bread and coffee. The scent of fresh bread had stirred my stomach awake, and hunger gnawed at me.

He looked from me to the bread and back, an amused glint sparking in his eye.

"No." His hand brushed through his hair in that lazy, self-assured gesture that seemed so characteristically him.

Jerk,I thought, the word flashing in my mind.

"But if you want…" He let his voice trail away, taking the bread from its perch and rising to step closer. "We can share."

I smiled, warmth creeping into my cheeks despite myself. "Okay."

He sat down beside me and broke the loaf in two, pressing the larger piece into my hands. I took it greedily, teeth sinking into the hard crust. The bread was stale and tough, but after days of near nothing, it tasted like a feast.

"Good?" he asked, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

I nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

His eyes fastened on mine as we dined, the silence stretching but not so strained this time. I felt within me the quiet tug of curiosity heave and rise, my mind circling back to the scars carved across his face, the secrets they intimated. Unable to resist, I reached a tentative hand toward his cheek.

"What happened… to you?" I whispered, my fingertips hovering less than a millimeter from his skin. But before I could touch him, his hand whipped out to catch mine, fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist.

"Don't," he whispered, his tone edged with a soft warning.

My hand fell back to my lap as my heart began to pound in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, feeling both the sting of rejection and the need to understand.

His eyes dropped to the floor, voice low and gravelly, "I don't like being touched there." The scars almost appeared deeper, his jaw clenched. "I… wasn't in the best place when I did this. But it's a reminder that even when life tore me to pieces—I survived."

"That's… okay," I muttered, instinctively reaching for his hand. But he pulled it away, tension running along his frame. Despite myself, a small smile pulled at my lips. "Don't tell me you don't like holding hands either?"

He looked away, shifting uncomfortably. "I… don't," he whispered.

"Oh," I whispered, pulling back and sinking into the bed. I tugged the blanket up to my face, feeling the heat bloom over my cheeks. "I'm so sorry if I made you uncomfortable," I mumbled into the fabric, hoping he could still hear.

The blanket lifted from my face, and his gaze softened as it met mine. "You didn't," he said, a cautious smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm just worried that if you did, I'd be the one hurting you."

I let a smile form even though it tugged painfully at the bruises dotting my cheeks.

"Then… when the time is right," I whispered, steady but laced with something deeper, "you can."

He chuckled, the sound serving to ease up some of the tension in the room.

"Promise."

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