I never once expected him to rejoice in what I'd done. To him, I understand this must feel like another betrayal, one of the worst kind. He never wanted this. He never wanted me. Not in a permanent way. It's a rejection I had braced for, but there’s no preparing your heart for something like this.

I push open the door tentatively, and his eyes move to my reflection in the glass. He goes rigid, and I'm glad I can't see the full spectrum of emotions on his face as I approach him from behind.

Quietly, I set the supplies on the windowsill and draw in a weary breath as I position myself behind him. He doesn't speak when I wrap my arms around him and start to undo his buttons, but his body is so stiff, words aren't necessary to convey his disapproval. Yet he doesn't fight me when I peel the shirt back from one shoulder, carefully removing it from the areas of his back it touches. Judge takes another long pull from the bottle, moves it to his other hand, and then discards the shirt entirely.

For a moment, my sharp inhale is the only sound in the room. Hot tears burn my eyes as my trembling hand hovers over his lacerations, some in various stages of healing, but all of them undoubtedly in the process of leaving scars.

My emotions rush to the surface, tightening my throat as I choke them back. I want to tell him he shouldn't have done this for me. I want to scold him, and at the same time, I want to thank him. Because he saved me. And in some ways, I think I know he always will. Except I can't allow him to do that this time. Not when I've put him in this position. I won't force his hand. I won't force anyone to love me. And I will not make him pay for a decision I made on my own.

With those thoughts in mind, I try to focus on the task at hand. I reach for the cloths and antiseptic, and I begin the difficult task of cleaning his opened wounds. Judge doesn't make a sound. He doesn't flinch or betray even a second of pain, though I know from experience how badly this hurts. There is no amount of gentility that can take the edge off this kind of agony. Yet he seems to be comfortable with it, as if he's been courting it his entire life. And I realize, in some ways, he probably has.