And when I reached his lowest scar—just above the waistband of his robe—I pressed my cheek to it.
He whispered.
I almost didn’t hear it.
“I never thought you’d want to see them.”
“I need to,” I said. “I need to know what kept you alive before I got here.”
He turned then.
And I let him.
He faced me fully, the light from the windows catching his skin in a way that made the scars glow.
“You want to carry it,” he said.
I nodded.
“I already do.”
His mouth parted. His hands reached.
But they didn’t grab.
They hovered. Framed my face.
“If I touch you now,” he said, “it won’t be to hollow.”
“Then touch me like I’m already full.”
He kissed me.
Not like a man starving.
Like a man who had already eaten and still wanted more.
He laid me down in front of the altar.
On the same stone where he once made me kneel.
But he didn’t press me down.
He undressed me slowly. Not to expose. To reveal.
He let the fabric fall from my shoulders like ash, like memory. His hands moved in silence—lifting, peeling, tracing—not out of lust, but remembrance. Like he was reacquainting himself with the edges of something sacred. With the girl who hadn’t flinched. The one who stayed.
He didn’t rush.
He took his time with my body the way a priest might touch scripture—deliberate, slow, reverent. His fingers trailed over the line of my waist, the dip of my ribs, the curve of my hip. He cupped my ass in one palm and just… held it. As if cataloguing its weight. As if grounding himself in the proof that I was still there.
His other hand traced up my spine. Over my shoulder blades. Across the back of my neck. He didn’t speak, didn’t breathe heavy, didn’t press forward yet. He just looked.
Looked at my skin like it remembered things he was afraid to forget.
When I turned to face him, his eyes found mine instantly. And hesawme. Every shiver. Every beat of want. Every place I had cracked to let him in.
His thumb brushed over my lower lip. Down to my collarbone. He followed it with his mouth—open, slow, warm. A kiss. A breath. A vow.