HE SAID HE’D NEVER SEEN YOUR SCARS. ON YOUR WEDDING NIGHT, HE ADMITTED HE KNEW YOUR FACE BEFORE YOU EVER SPOKE.

Then he says, “Do you want tea?”

And because life is absurd and healing is never cinematic for long, you laugh.

“Yes.”

You talk for hours that night. Not about the case. Not about corruption. About you. About marriage. About what honesty costs and what it buys. You tell him there will be no more protective lies. No more choosing your feelings for you. He agrees before you finish the sentence. You tell him trust is not a wound he gets to declare healed because he has apologized enough. He says he knows. You tell him if he ever hides another life-changing truth out of fear, you will leave so hard his ancestors will hear the door. That one makes him actually smile.

Then he says, “Can I tell you something without trying to earn anything from it?”

You nod.

“The first time I saw your face clearly, I cried in the pharmacy parking lot.”

You blink.

He looks embarrassed. “Not because of your scars. Because I realized how much pain you had carried into every room with me, and how carefully you had still loved. I thought, if she ever lets me keep any place in her life after this, I must become worth that mercy.”

You look at him for a long time.

“That,” you say softly, “is the first romantic thing you’ve said in months that hasn’t made me want to throw a spoon at you.”

“I’m glad we’re progressing.”

You do not move back into the bedroom that night.

But you stay.

Later, months later, much later, there is a different kind of night.

Rain at the windows. Laundry folded badly because he insists he is good at it and you insist he is a criminal. A lamp left on in the living room. You are standing by the bookshelf in one of his shirts, looking for a music notebook, when he comes behind you and rests his chin lightly on your shoulder.

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“You already are.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Would you let me paint you?”

You turn in his arms. “Paint me?”

“I’m terrible at it,” he says. “So your expectations can stay low and protected.”

You stare at him, then start laughing so hard you have to lean against the shelf.

“Why on earth would I agree to that?”

“Because I spent years knowing you through sound and touch,” he says. “Now I want to learn you through light too. Honestly this time.”

The room goes quiet.