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"I'm here," he hushes into my hair. He holds me in a way that's cautious. Like he doesn't want to fully touch me in case it's too much, but he doesn't let go. And part of me doesn't want him to. Part of me wants him to hold on tighter, to feel the way his body fits against mine and replaces the touch, the memory the fucking feeling of Vincent for the briefest second.

We stay like this for a while, him just holding me in place whilst I sob into his shirt. He finally relaxes, releasing me from his grip.

"Hey," he whispers. "I want to show you something." His hands brush against my shoulders as he turns me towards the sink. My own reflection stares back at me through the big mirror hanging on the wall. A woman who once looked like me looks back, but now I don't recognise her. My hair's a mess of mangled curls in some places. I long to brush it through, to take the time I need to really take care of myself, but I don't. The better I look, the more he'll want. I drag my eyes to the sink, I can't bear to look at the girl in the mirror. The girl who's now me.

"I want you to try something okay?" His voice is soft. "You can tell me to fuck off. I'll go—but I think it might help a little."

"I doubt it," I say dryly, but I stay in the same spot. I'll try anything to stop feeling this way.

"Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

I stare at him through the mirror, ignoring the blood that's splattered across his shirt. He's lost it too, clearly.

"I see me." The sarcasm is loud, but I don't understand what he expects me to say. I only see me and him.

He rolls his eyes. "Humour me." His hands move to my arms, shifting them from my sides as he examines my skin. "Look closely and tell me, Amora."

I swallow. "I see…my arm. My skin."

"Exactly, you see your arm. Your skin. Now tell me what's not there."

It finally clicks, and my heart does a jump that I'd never felt before. I don't answer, not yet. I'm too busy fighting back the tears from coming once again, but this time, it's not grief. It's sheer relief.

My eyes drag across my dark skin, the same skin his fingertips feel burnt into. For a second, just a second, I don't see them. I see me.

Then it's gone. His hands are back, ghosting over my arm like they never left, and I flinch so hard I nearly knock into him.

"It didn't work," I whisper, hating how much I sound like I'm begging.

"It's not supposed to work on the first try." His voice stays steady, patient in a way that makes me wonder how many times he's had to tell himself this. "Look again."

I do. It takes longer this time, my eyes tracing the same stretch of skin like I'm looking for proof of a crime scene that isn't there.

"He's not there, Amora. I know it's hard, I know the voice in your head is probably telling you a different story, but when you feel him, when you feel like it'll never end, I want you to look in the mirror. To see for yourself he isn't there. That you're still you."

"How many times do I have to do this before I believe it?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I turn to face him. Our eyes searching each other's for answers neither of us can give. I wonder how he knew about this or maybe this is something he needs, too.

"More than once," he says finally. "Every time, if that's what it takes."

"Why did you come tonight, Jax?" I whisper, eyes dropping to the blood on his arms that I've been trying to ignore.

"Because I needed to see if you'd still look at me the same way you did back in the warehouse."

"Like what?" I tilt my head, my words quiet.

"Like I'm not a monster."

Our eyes never leave each other as we settle into the silence that doesn't feel heavy at all. For once in a long time, I can finally think. I can hear something that isn't grief or shame. It isn't Vincent. I didn't know how badly I needed this. A person who saw me as a person, who's touched wasn't evil or full of desire, but was warm and safe. And for some reason, I feel like Jax needed that too.

His hands move to find mine, I expected to flinch, to pull myself away, but I don't. I find myself embracing the way his fingers link between mine, the feel of his callous palms against my skin.

"You're brave, Amora. Braver than you give yourself credit for."

I shrug, letting the tears fall, because for some strange reason, I don't feel the need to hide them from him. "I don't feel very brave." We stand for a moment, letting it linger, his hand still in mine, but neither of us pull away.

His jaw tightens, his hand tensing slightly around mine. "I saw the girls." He clears his throat. "The ones in the cells."