Chris exhaled. "Stop me from what? Standing in a bathroom? Menacing my own reflection? It's a hobby."
Dax's gaze dropped again, slower this time. Just… watching, like he remembered every day. Chris had carried Nero; every hour his body had done something impossible and then been cut open for it.
Chris felt the phantom of the mirror behind him: scar, stretch marks, proof, proof, proof.
His mind tried to turn it into something clever, because if he made it funny, it wouldn't be vulnerable.
"I'm fine," Chris said, and his voice almost made it convincing.
Dax leaned in just enough that Chris had to look at him instead of anywhere else.
"No," Dax said softly. "You're physically healed."
Chris blinked once.
It should have been the same sentence.
Dax kept his hand on the robe belt, steady. Possessive without theatrics. Dangerous in the way only calm predators were.
"You're allowed to be healed," Dax continued, "and still hate what it cost you."
