This story contains mature themes including emotional trauma, mental health struggles, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised

CHAPTER 13 (Charlies POV)

Her lips are soft, warm, familiar. We’ve kissed before — countless times, in fact — but this time feels different. 

Gwen’s sitting on my lap  and I can barely think straight. Her hands slide beneath the hem of my t-shirt. I freeze for a second. 

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, but keeps going anyway. 

I kiss her again, harder — to distract her, or maybe myself. But she tugs at my shirt gently, not pulling it off yet, just resting her fingers there. 

“Can I?” she asks quietly. 

I pull back slightly. For a moment, I want to say yes. I want to say it like I’m not terrified. Like I’m not covered in reasons to hide. 

Instead, I quickly say, “I need to piss.” 

She blinks. “Oh. Um—okay.” 

I slip out from under her and head to the bathroom. Once the door’s locked, I lean over the sink, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. 

What is wrong with me?

I lift my shirt and stare at the faint pink lines across my ribs and upper arms. Some old. Some not as old. All a mess of silence I never talked about. 

From the cabinet, I grab a box of plasters. I cover what I can — not all of them, but enough. Enough to maybe pass as just scars from clumsiness. From being a stupid kid. 

I stare at myself in the mirror. My face is pale.  

But I go back. 

Gwen’s still sitting on the bed, watching me. She offers a small smile, uncertain. 

“You okay?” she asks softly. 

I nod, too fast. “Yeah. Just needed a second.” 

I lift my arms. 

She pulls my shirt over my head, slow and careful. The fabric slides off my skin, and I brace for her reaction. 

Her eyes scan my torso, her hands pausing near the plasters — but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask. 

Instead, she kisses me. 

We lie back on the bed 

 I let myself be held. 

Her hoodie comes off.  

We don’t go all the way this time. It’s not about that. 

It’s about being seen and not flinching. 

It’s about her not asking what the scars mean. 

And me not having to explain. 

“You’re okay?” she whispers again. 

I don’t pause this time. 

“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. 

For once, I actually mean it.