You delight in every line, every shape, every angled declaration of where she has been.

She tells you the stories behind them, sometimes. In the dark, after your play, matter of fact, brazenly proud. Every inch of skin a declaration of her history, her survival.

This was for a death, she says. This was for a life. This was faith lost and fuck them all anyway.

You tease her, when you dare, when the walls are down and the lights are low. A glaringly empty spot, securely hidden beneath even her scant wardrobe, suspiciously blank in the palimpsest parchment of her rewritten life.

This is for something special, she says, refusing to say anything more.

Months later - lifetimes later - on the shuttle, the Academy fading in the night, her students eager and attentive around you - her off hand comment about the N7 tattoo on her ass is playful. Teasing. Easily dismissed.

At least, for anyone else. Something special, she said. Her "I love you"s have always been unorthodox.

You pull her close and respond the only way you know how.