"I do what I have to," John started, almost apologetic. It was a stark change from his usual coldness that burned hot and red and everyone down to ashes. "To get back to you."
Miranda looked past the scars and deep into his blue-grey eyes. In them she could see he was telling the truth, something they both had difficulty doing. His words made her think there could be more to them than countless nights in her bed. Always her bed, never his. Always silk sheets tickling his arms. There were too many phantoms, too many cracked picture frames in his room. She never asked. She knew what it was like to want to get away from yourself and your mistakes. She wished she could, but all her scars were on the inside.