CHAPTER twenty-nine
You Think Your Scars Are Hidden
Zion National Park, Utah
Morning light seeps gently through the thin canvas walls of the yurt, casting a gilded glow across the room. I blink awake, stretching my arms overhead with a yawn, then roll to my side, instinctively reaching for Elias.
But the space beside me is cold and empty.
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, then pad over to the small bathroom to brush my teeth. After slipping on my sandals, I step into the crisp morning air.
Outside, the world feels still, wrapped in the hush of early sunlight. I spot him a few feet away, lounging in a low chair, legs sprawled, his head bent over the worn leather of his notebook. He looks effortlessly beautiful, his brow furrowed in thought, a pen moving steadily across the page.
The crunch of gravel beneath my feet lures his attention. He glances up, and when our eyes meet, a slow-burning smile plays at the corners of his mouth. I shield my face from the sun with one hand as I walk toward him, his eyes tracking my every step.
Without a word, he shifts in his seat and opens his arms. I sink into his lap, my legs curling against his, and he sets the notebook aside, giving me his full focus. One hand slides around the back of my neck, drawing me in as his lips meet mine—slow and deep.
When he finally pulls back, I cradle his face in my hands, peppering soft kisses across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his forehead, then one more, lingering, on his lips.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“So good. You?”
He rakes a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.
“Better than usual.”
I glance down at the notebook resting beside us, the leather worn smooth at the edges. My fingers trail along its surface, curious. He doesn’t stop me, just watches quietly as I brush the cover. Then, without a word, he opens it.
Lines of scribbled cursive fill the pages—beautiful in its imperfection. I glance up at him, silently asking, and he gives a single nod.
As I begin to read, recognition sparks. Some of the words echo from the first song I ever heard him perform at The Riot Room—No Way Out.
Are you scared of the monster that you see? Forged in a fire...
I turn the page, and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder. I read on:
Dark memories seared into flesh, a canvas painted with my shame.
Every mark, a silent scream, an echo of the ones I couldn’t save.
My breath catches.
It’s not just poetry—it’s his pain, his truth carved into every line. It’s the story of the night he lost his mother and brother, laid bare on these pages.
I turn a few more pages to find one of the new songs they’ve been working on:
The slide of a blade against my skin, a whisper sharp, a cold beginning…
I look down at his hands that are resting on my thighs under the notebook.
I lift one up, flipping it over, where I can see his wrist. What I find are small, thin scars hidden beneath the ink.
I run my fingers gently along the raised skin before bringing his wrist to my lips and kissing along each line.
I turn to him, heart aching, and find his expression unreadable—still and shadowed, as if he’s bracing for rejection. Vulnerability clings to him like smoke, and I can tell he’s not used to being seen like this.
He drops his head at my discovery. I stand up between his legs, setting the notebook aside.
He shifts up and wraps his hands around the back of my legs.
I lift my shorts slightly to reveal the inside of my upper thigh.
His eyes meet mine, confused at first. Then he looks down to the exposed skin.
I catch the moment of realization as he sees lines similar to those of his own vintage pain.
He looks back to me, his eyes asking permission. I nod, and he gently traces the lines with his fingers just as I had moments ago.
“I picked this spot so that my parents wouldn’t see, so no one would see.”
He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me closer to him, resting his head against my stomach. My fingers find their way into his hair.
“I started when things got really bad with Gracelyn. It was the only way that I could relieve the stress of everything.”
I brush a few strands of hair away from his forehead and gently rake my nails along his scalp.
“I’m so sorry for the things you’ve lived through,” I whisper. “But the way you’ve taken that pain and shaped it into something that moves people, that makes people feel seen, feel less alone… It’s inspiring,
“This community is special to so many people. A lot of people who don’t have anywhere else to belong… you and the band are a part of that. It’s something to be proud of.”
He glances away, his jaw tightening, unable to absorb the praise. A heavy silence settles between us until he finally speaks.
“Writing… performing… It’s the only way I know how to survive…to cope. It’s my therapy. Without it, I don’t know if I would be here.”
I keep my fingers in his hair, letting him feel that I’m still here—no matter what. I lift his head so our eyes meet again, and I brush my thumbs along his cheeks.
“I’m so glad that you are still here, Elias. I am honored that I get to know you.”
His steady gaze holds mine as he says, “I want to thank you, Ramona.”
“For what?” I tilt my head, brushing my thumb along the line of his jaw, trying to read what’s happening behind his eyes.
“For giving me time,” he says, swallowing. “For being patient with me.”
A soft smile pulls at my lips, but it falters when he glances away again. His throat bobs, his fingers flexing slightly against my waist like he’s gathering courage. When his eyes find mine again, they’re stripped bare. His pupils are dark with sincerity, rimmed in vulnerability.
“Thank you for making me feel… safe with you.”
The word hangs between us.
Safe.
My breath stutters. My chest aches in the most beautifully painful way.
I press my hand over my heart as if I can physically hold it together, because something inside me cracks wide open at the sound of it.
This man—who commands stages, who fearlessly pours himself into the music like he’s invincible—just handed me the softest, most breakable part of himself.
He doesn’t trust many people, but he trusts me.
I can’t find words that feel big enough.
I shift, settling fully into his lap, my knees bracketing his hips. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close until his forehead rests beneath my chin, his hair brushing against my lips. He exhales against my collarbone, long and shaky, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.
I cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, holding him the way you hold something precious. The way you hold something you intend to protect.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper into the crown of his head, my voice thick with emotion. “Always.”
And when his arms tighten around my waist, I feel it too.
Safe.
I finally pull back and pick up the notebook once again. I open to a page titled Scars and read several lines. Another new song the band has been working on:
You handed me your open hands
And I crushed them with my flame
I broke you down piece by piece
Swept you into my rampage
You think your scars are hidden
Behind each smile
But I can see the cracks, every crimson stain
Because I wield the weapon of your silent pain
My heart clenches at the words. The guilt is palpable, the shame of not knowing how to accept help and hurting someone you love in the process.
I kiss his temple, then lower my eyes and gently flip through more of the pages. Each line is another piece of him—fragmented, fierce, vulnerable.
But when I go to turn another page, his hand darts out and closes it swiftly.
“Those songs aren’t ready yet,” he says, voice low but firm.
I meet his gaze, nodding in understanding.