-Zade Collins:
Blake stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped clumsily around his waist, his curls wet and sticking to his forehead. His glasses were fogged at the corners, damp little drops sliding down the frames. He wasn't looking at me—he was staring down at himself, his hands hovering uncertainly near his chest, fingers trembling as though he wanted to touch the burn but couldn't bring himself to.
The mark was angry red, stretched across the pale skin of his chest. It looked worse against him, against that softness he carried in his body—skin that wasn't sharp and lean but gentle, rounded in places, alive in a way that made him look... Adorable, not sculpted out of stone like people always seemed to expect. The sight of that burn marring him, hurting him, made something sharp twist inside me.
"Blake," I whispered, my throat tight.
