Chase has turned his face away from me, eyes closed, muttering something under his breath, but I can't make it out. Because my brain can't process anything right now except those scars.
I'm gaping, open mouthed at Chase. That thick, braided, too-pink skin, in ridges and waves. I only saw a slice of it, but it's obviously a landscape that covers a swathe of his back.
"Chase—"
"I got burned," he says. He won't meet my eyes. "Don't look at me like that. It was years ago."
I swallow, trying to find my way past the shock so I don't embarrass him further. "I'm sorry. It isn't . . . I mean, I'm not shocked because it's a big deal. I mean . . . that must have hurt?"
He huffs, then winces. But he doesn't say more.
I'm at a loss—want to make him feel better, but also have so many questions. He gets more and more uncomfortable as I stare at him.
