“It’s not your job to protect me,” he says in a low whisper, as his fingers brush softly against my skin. We stare at each other for a moment. I lift both my hands to his arm and slowly unbutton the cuff of his sleeve. He looks on curiously as I push the crisp white shirt and jacket sleeve up, revealing the now faded copper scar. I run my fingers along the edge of where the adhesive has healed into his skin. It’s smooth and cold, like a vein in a marble statue. “Isn’t it, though?” I ask, looking back at him.
SCREAMING I love a mirrored moment
