His back was to me, but the faded jeans he wore sat higher than the low-slung sweats he’d worn in my bed, concealing the thick, ropey scars that had shattered my soul this morning, and he let me see him. Let me come up close behind him and press my forehead between his shoulder blades, and god, his skin smelled so good it was hard to think about anything else. Even the harsh reality that a mere shift in variables could’ve ripped him away from me—from us—forever.
