Twenty-two #2
Usually she would wipe a clear patch into the glass and start cataloguing flaws: tired eyes, smudged mascara, softness she thought she was supposed to apologize for.
Today, she doesn’t.
She lets the blur remain.
Not hiding.
Softening.
She waits for her breathing to steady, then lifts her eyes to her reflection.
Not to judge it.
Just to see what’s there.
And for the first time in years, she doesn’t look away.
?
The mirror clears in patches, a slow exhalation of steam revealing fragments of her body, then her face, then all of her at once. Brielle stands, towel clutched at her chest, hair dripping in damp ropes that frame her face and make her look younger, softer, more animal.
She doesn’t check for the usual suspects: the bloat, the under-eye baggage, the stubborn extra at her hips.
Instead, she notices the marks. The crescent of red at her collarbone, brightening now that the shower’s heat has receded.
The dusky bloom at the slope of her left breast where Jason had pinned her, not in anger, but in that slow, claiming way that made her want to scream.
The faint, symmetrical press of Leo’s hands around her waist, their thumbprints still visible at the bone.
She traces each with her fingertips, as if mapping new constellations.
Her stomach, usually the object of some silent rebuke, is flat today—no, not flat, but alive.
She doesn’t suck it in. She lets it out, watching the curve as she breathes, the way it expands and contracts in time with her pulse.
Her thighs faintly bruised, but the ache is sweet, almost nostalgic, like the day after a marathon.
She runs a palm over the length of her leg, feels the warmth of her own skin.
Water beads along her neck, gathers at her collarbone, and runs in rivulets between her breasts.
The droplets catch the light, making her skin look more luminous than it has any right to be.
She blinks, waiting for the old voice to chime in—the critical one, the one that inventories every flaw—but it’s absent.
Maybe drowned by the sound of last night, by the way two men looked at her like she was a feast, not a checklist.
She stands there, letting the silence fill the room.
The longer she stares, the less she sees flaws, the more she sees a story: every inch of her a living record of the night before, every evidence of being seen, touched, chosen.
Her body is not a project, not a battleground. It’s a home. Lived in, not managed.
She grins, surprised by it. The smile is quick, a flash, but it’s enough to change her face. She leans in, whispers to her own reflection: “There you are.” The voice is almost reverent.
Not found.
Claimed.
It’s not approval. It’s recognition.
She looks at herself, really looks, until the image becomes less about the angles and more about the energy—the way her eyes are bright, the way her lips are a little swollen from being kissed too hard, the way her skin looks like it’s been claimed, not marked for correction.
She lets her hand drop from her hair, releases her grip on the towel, and stands a little taller.
For a moment, the woman in the mirror is unfamiliar—bolder, uncontained—but she doesn’t flinch.
She meets her own gaze. She doesn’t look away.
?
The bathroom door opens so quietly Brielle doesn’t hear it. She only feels the shift in the air behind her.
First the warmth of breath near her shoulder. Then the soft tread of bare feet against tile.
Jason.
She keeps her eyes on the mirror.
He’s shirtless, pajama pants slung low on his hips, hair still damp from the first shower of the morning and already falling out of place.
He pauses just inside the doorway and takes her in slowly, his gaze tracing the curve of her back, the loose edge of the towel, the reflection of her face in the glass.
He doesn’t speak right away.
He waits, as though giving her the chance to close the distance—or ask for space.
She does neither.
He steps in behind her, close enough that heat radiates from his skin, but not enough to crowd her. Their bodies align naturally, almost touching.
He looks at her reflection. Then his own. Then hers again.
His hands settle lightly at her waist, thumbs moving in slow, absent circles just above the towel. He doesn’t turn her toward him. Doesn’t pull her closer.
He just stands there, looking at both of them.
“You see it now.”
Not a question.
Recognition.
Brielle feels something tighten in her throat. She almost laughs. Almost cries. Instead, she lets the words settle inside her.
She meets his eyes in the mirror.
“What?” she asks softly, though they both know she already understands.
Jason smiles—not smug, not triumphant. Patient.
“You,” he says. “You’re not hiding anymore.”
She isn’t.
She feels it in the way she stands now, in the way her body rests easily against his, in the way her gaze no longer slips from the reflection staring back at her.
It’s not about the marks on her skin, or the softness she used to criticize, or the pieces of herself she spent years trying to minimize.
It’s about being seen.
By herself.
And by him.
She shifts her weight slightly, leaning back into the warmth of his chest, and his arms circle her loosely in response. The towel slips lower on her shoulder. Jason presses a kiss to the damp skin there, soft enough to feel like reassurance, warm enough to feel like promise.
In the mirror, they look right together.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
Just real.
Two people still waking up to themselves. And to each other.
Jason rests his chin lightly against the top of her head.
“This is what I wanted,” he says quietly. “For you to see yourself.”
She breathes in slowly. “What’s that?”
His grin deepens, one dimple catching briefly at his cheek.
“All of it.”
The simplicity of the answer hits harder than anything else could have.
They stay there for a long moment, saying nothing, letting the silence expand around them. Brielle doesn’t rush to get dressed. She doesn’t tug the towel tighter or reach for her clothes.
She just exists there beside him—held, visible, whole.
She thinks about all the years she spent shrinking herself into something easier to carry. Smaller. Sharper. More manageable.
She wonders if she can keep this version of herself instead.
The one who takes up space.
The one who lets herself be seen.
The one who doesn’t apologize for wanting more.
Looking at herself now, reflected beside Jason in the fogged mirror, she thinks maybe she can.
Their eyes meet again in the glass.
Neither of them looks away.
?
The quiet in the bathroom feels complete, the kind that comes not from silence but from the absence of any need to fill it.
Brielle lets the moment stretch between them. Jason’s hands stay steady at her waist while the towel loosens inch by inch against her skin. She feels the warmth of him through the damp fabric, the slow rise and fall of his chest matching her own.
Then she turns.
Deliberately.
Not toward the mirror.
Not toward the woman she used to be.
Toward him.
Jason’s gaze catches hers immediately. She sees the remnants of concern still lingering there—the small, careful tension of a man waiting for her to retreat into herself again. To shrink. To apologize.
She doesn’t.
She leans in and kisses him.
Not desperate.
Not hungry.
Certain.
A slow press of lips that feels less like a question and more like an anchor settling into place. She lets it linger, eyes still open, letting him feel the steadiness of her.
When she pulls back, she stays close enough to breathe the same air.
“Don’t let me forget who I am.”
The words come out quiet but unsparing.
Not a plea.
Not a request to be rescued.
Just the truth.
Jason doesn’t rush to reassure her. No promises. No speeches. He just nods once, hands warm and grounded at her waist, and the look in his eyes says everything she needs to hear anyway.
I won’t.
You’re here.
I see you.
They stand there together while steam curls slowly toward the ceiling, the mirror fogged behind them, the room still carrying the warmth of the shower.
Nothing has changed.
The same tile.
The same sink.
The same dim bathroom light.
But the way Brielle inhabits the space feels entirely new.
She isn’t the before version of herself anymore.
Not a project.
Not a problem to solve.
Not someone trying to become easier to love.
Just real.
Held.
Whole.
And for the first time, she believes the feeling might actually last.
The towel slips fully to the floor.
She steps into Jason’s arms and stays there.
The phone buzzes against the counter.
Neither of them moves at first.
Then Jason reaches for it, glances at the screen, and looks back at her.
“Leo,” he says simply.
Just her name in the message. Nothing else.
Brielle takes the phone from his hand and reads it once.
Her pulse doesn’t spike.
It steadies.
Jason watches her carefully, but not possessively.
“You want him here?”
She looks at him first.
Really looks.
Then at the phone. Then at herself in the mirror behind him.
“Yeah,” she says.
Not soft.
Not uncertain.
Certain.
Brielle
Come over.
She sends it without hesitation. Without looking to Jason for permission. Without softening the edges of it.
Jason’s mouth curves slowly at one corner.
“Okay,” he says.
And this time, it doesn’t feel like something happening to them.
It feels like something she started.