The Stillness Between Scars

He woke to warmth not just the body curled beside him but a different kind of heat, something deeper, unfamiliar. Peace maybe or something close enough to make him feel guilty for having it.

Aksha was still asleep.Her back was against his chest one hand tucked under her cheek. His arm was slung around her waist, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that she could leave at any second.

The room smelled like sweat, ink, and skin.

And something else Stillness.He didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the spell. Her breathing was steady, like she was finally letting go of something she’d carried for too long.He watched a sliver of light stretch across her shoulder blade the same one he’d kissed sometime after midnight, when neither of them could speak anymore.

His fingers hovered above her hip. Not touching Just remembering.

She stirred.Don’t panic she mumbled into the pillow. I’m still here.

He smiled barely. Wasn’t sure.

I almost didn’t stay.

Why did you?

She turned slowly her eyes still fogged with sleep.Because when you touched me… I didn’t feel owned. I felt chosen.

They got up slowly, careful not to look at each other too long. She borrowed a fresh shirt from his locker black soft oversized.

When she pulled it over her head, he stared too long at the new tattoo peeking out from the edge .His voice cracked a little.

Does it hurt?

She nodded once. But it’s good pain.

They shared coffee in silence, sitting on opposite ends of the battered couch, legs occasionally brushing. He watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and felt something in his chest throb with unbearable want.

I don’t know what this is he said finally. Between us.

Aksha looked at him, expression unreadable.

Neither do I.

But I think she said, after a long pause, it might be the first thing that hasn’t tried to break me.

He swallowed. His heart felt too loud.

You scare me, Aksha.

Good.

Why?

Because if I’m going to fall for someone she said, I want it to be someone who’s afraid but stays anyway.

Later that week, they weren’t sleeping together. Not physically.But the tension it never left the room.She sat on the studio couch flipping through his sketchbook while he cleaned his ink tray. He pretended not to notice her pausing on the latest page her again but different.Her face drawn in soft strokes. Eyes shut lips parted slightly. A kind of raw peace.

You made me look soft she said.

You are.

She tilted her head. Do you believe that?

I’m trying to.

She walked over slowly, and this time, there was no urgency in the way she touched him. No hunger just heat.

Her hands slipped under his shirt, fingertips dragging across his stomach, his ribs, the faded tattoo near his heart. He didn’t breathe didn’t dare.And when her mouth found his, it wasn’t a collision.

It was a question.And he answered by pulling her against him not like someone who needed to own, but someone who finally dared to hold.They didn’t sleep together that night.They didn’t need to.

And sometimes that was more intimate than anything skin alone could offer.

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