Later, patched with a bandage and a whisper, the moment reassembled into something softer: not a crime but an initiation. The scar was small and obedient; it didn't shout. It hummed, a private keepsake tucked beneath hair and daylight. When people asked, she called it an accident and changed the subject. When he looked, she let the memory do the speaking—their shared misdemeanor rendered innocent by the tenderness after.
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