Page 60 of Hollowed

Only me.

I found him where I knew he’d be.

Kneeling before the altar like his body was an apology. Not to me. Not even to God. Just to the stone. As if the floor itself remembered how he’d once broken someone there. As if it might forgive him for how he hadn’t broken me.

He was bare from the waist up.

His back to me.

And I saw it for the first time—not just the sigils carved into his chest, but the ones down his spine. Some inked. Some scarred. Some carved by his own hand, if the jaggedness of the lines meant anything.

I stopped a few steps away.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t acknowledge me.

But I could feel the way his breath changed.

He was trying to stay still.

Trying not to turn around.

Trying not to reach.

And I loved him for failing at it.

I came to him slowly.

Kneeling behind him, careful not to make a sound. Not out of fear.

Out of reverence.

He had made a vow in silence.

And now I would answer it the same way.

My hands found his shoulders.

Broad. Scarred. Warm.

He didn’t flinch.

But I felt the breath punch out of him. Like I’d knocked something loose that had lived inside his ribs too long.

I leaned forward.

Pressed my lips to one of the sigils.

He inhaled sharply.

I kissed the next.

Then the next.

I moved down his back with my mouth, slowly, methodically, like I was reading him.

Like his skin was scripture.

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