His hands traced my scars with a curiosity that scorched. Each pass of his fingers made me feel exposed, as though he was peeling back layers I wasn’t ready to surrender. His fingers lingered, soft but deliberate, while his eyes searched mine, brimming with questions he never asked aloud. The silence between us grew thick, so much that I could feel the weight of his curiosity pressing against me; not in words but in the way his gaze refused to let go.

For a moment, I wondered if he feared breaking the spell by speaking, or if he was giving me the dignity of choosing when to tell my story. My breath slowed down, and the air around us seemed to still. It wasn’t just his touch on my skin—it was the quiet acceptance in his restraint, the promise that he would wait, however long it took, for me to let him in.