Nayla didn't notice she had rolled up her sleeve until Raka's eyes landed on the faint scar near her elbow.
It was old barely visible unless someone was close enough to see it in the late afternoon light. They were sitting in her living room, music low, tea cups half-full, a soft indie playlist humming through the speaker. She was unusually relaxed, leaning sideways on her sofa, one leg tucked beneath her.
He didn't ask right away. He just looked.
And she noticed.
Her instinct was to pull the sleeve back down, to laugh it off, say it was nothing. But then she met his gaze. Not probing. Not pitying. Just curious. Gentle.
She let her arm rest where it was.
"What's that from?" he asked quietly.
She inhaled.
"When I was thirteen," she said, her voice low, "I rode my bike downhill too fast. I was trying to impress my cousin. I hit a pothole and flew."
She smiled a little, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Landed on the gravel. Tore up my arm. I didn't tell anyone at first. I cleaned it myself and wore long sleeves for a week."
Raka raised his brows. "Why didn't you tell your parents?"
"I didn't want anyone to fuss," she said. "Or worry. I thought if I ignored it, it'd heal faster."
He nodded, waiting.
She touched the scar absentmindedly. "It's stupid, I know. It's just a mark. But sometimes when I'm anxious, I still feel it. Like a ghost pain."
"Not stupid," he said gently.
She glanced at him, surprised.
"Scars don't always fade in the places that matter most," he added.
They looked at each other, a quiet understanding hanging in the air.
"Do you have any?" she asked after a pause.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Not the visible kind."
Nayla tilted her head.
"Mine came from trust," he said. "Giving it too easily. Losing it when I didn't see it coming."
She swallowed. "Did it… change you?"
"Made me quieter. Not outside, inside."
That answer hit something deep in her. She had always thought Raka was unshakably confident. Unbothered. Steady. But maybe he had just learned to carry his hurt differently.
"Is that why you're so patient?" she asked.
He looked at her. "I think it's why I understand you."
There it was again. That soft, intentional honesty. The kind that didn't ask for anything in return.
She reached for her tea. Her hand brushed against his as she picked it up. She didn't pull away.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not asking me to be someone easier."
Raka's smile was warm. "You're not hard. You're just real."
Nayla looked down, but the tears that threatened didn't fall this time. They just shimmered quietly in her eyes.
She never thought someone would see her scars and still stay.
But he was still here.
And she was starting to believe he wouldn't leave.