I've worn his shirt before. The smell is the same. He gave it to me to wear for bed, because my Halloween costume was too tight, and I was drunk, and the room had pictures of the sea on it and smelled like lavender, and I was happy, for a few seconds he was leaning over me and kissing me and I was happy. Reality and my memories blur together. I'm in the hotel room but I'm in the seashore room all at once. The shirt is soft. The smell of him is the same. Except the Jack now is sitting at his computer, staring at me with concerned eyes, and the Jack of the past is leaning over me, his lips on every part of my neck, my collarbone, my mouth and the corner of my mouth, and -

"Isis, are you alright?" Hotel-Jack asks. "Forget what I said. I'm trying to let the past go. Sometimes it's difficult, and I say ridiculous things. You're not a part of my life anymore, just like you wanted. I've blocked you off. I promise."

'I like you.'

Something painful and monstrous opens up in my chest, like a massive, shadowy venus flytrap. The two me's reach for his hand at the same time.

"I remember," I whisper. His fingers are long and delicate, but I can feel the strength in them. "I remember the Halloween party. I said I liked you. You - You kissed me. We - "

Sophia's words reverberate in my head.

'That’s why he kissed you. That’s why he even bothered getting to know you. Because you’re exactly like me. Hopeless like me.'

I drop his hand like it's burned me.

"I'm sorry. Shit - I'm sorry."

"For what?" Jack murmurs.

"I'm assuming things! My memories are back but I know the full story, now, too, so I'm sorry for even bringing it up!"

"Your memories are back?" His voice is strangled, but he clears it. "That's - that's good. You don't have to be sorry for -"

"I just mean that wasn't - obviously that night wasn't a real, uh, kiss thing. I mean, we were both pretty drunk! You didn't really mean it, you were just being weirdly nice like you sometimes are once in a blue-ass moon, and I was super drunk, so when I said I liked you I just meant as a nemesis, you know? As a friend I could fight with verbally and stuff! Yeah. I really did like you. As a nemesis. Man, fighting you was fun!"

I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"And, you know. I remind you of Sophia. We are kind of similar, deep down, so it makes sense you'd get confused and kiss me! Totally cool. Totally understandable. Man, I'm just sorry I drunkenly forced myself on you like that, and then did a total 180 and got scared like a little bitch. Like, wow, nobody deserves that ever, you feel me? I'm really sorry you had to go through that."

***

I've wanted to hold her for months. It's a need I've tamped down, a carefully-controlled fire kept locked in the center of an iceberg. And she's unknowingly tested me, over and over; she's prodded and poked and sometimes taken a chainsaw to the ice, but she's never gotten through because I am Jack Hunter, and I am in control of myself at all times.

Except that one time, in the seashore room. The time she thinks was false. The time she is heaping piles of guilt on herself for. Guilt that's coming from her past, and from Will Cavanaugh. If I don't stop this now, she'll hurt herself with it. The cycle of Will's damage will only dig its thorns deeper into her.

"I don't want to scare you," I say finally. She looks up, warm cinnamon eyes surprised.

"What?"

"I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want to make you uncomfortable - "

"Um -"

" - but you are nothing like Sophia. You are Isis Blake - stubborn and ridiculous and kind and strong. You are exactly you. And that's why I kissed you that night - because I wanted to kiss Isis Blake. And I did. And it was hasty of me, and uncalled for. You had every right to stop, and every right to pull away. You were afraid, and I exacerbated that fear by trying to kiss you, and it is my fault. Not yours."

Her face goes blank with shock, and she's silent for once in her life.

"Yes, we were drunk," I continue. "You were, more specifically, and I was a little. So I'm the one who should have known better, and I apologize. I went too far, too fast. I was excited," I chuckle darkly. "For once in my life, I was excited. It's no excuse, but I hope it helps you understand my actions that night."

Her shell-shocked expression doesn't change.

"I'm sorry," I smile. "It won't happen again."

She doesn't say anything. I have to break the tension. I get up and stretch, cracking my neck and wrists.

"You should go. It's getting late, and I'm sure you're tired. You need to get some rest. Thank you for telling me about the men. I'll look into them -"

Something crashes into me from behind, and it takes me a second to realize it's her, wrapping her arms around my stomach and pulling my spine to rest against her chest. She buries her face in my back.

"I want it," she whispers. "I...I want it to h-happen again."

The web of anxiety in me snaps, thread by thread, and every muscle in my body relaxes. It is relief, pure and bright, coursing through me. I'm not the only one who wants it. I am not the only one, and my skin warms and my breathing comes easier as that knowledge sinks in with each passing second of silence. What she said that night in the seashore room wasn't just a drunk babble. She likes me. And I soak in that realization for as long as I can, before she rubs her face against my shirt like an animal, something wild and used to marking others with its scent.

"I want to show you something," she says.

"Alright." I keep my voice carefully even and low.

She puts her arms out on either side of me, and pulls up the shirt on her right arm. She's always, always kept that arm covered. She's never worn short sleeved t-shirts, and even when I saw her in that blouse, she kept the sleeve carefully covering it and her arm faced downward. It's almost a reflex with her, to keep the arm out of sight.

My breath catches.

There, on the delicate underside of her wrist, are the marks. Round, puckered white scars. Dozens of them. They molt her skin, the pockmarks overlapping like a dappled pond. Cigarette burns.

"How -" I stop myself, even though I know the answer already. "I'm sorry. It's not my place to ask."

Her arms tremble as she speaks. "Nameless."

I close my eyes. Hearing the confirmation from her is more infuriating, more heartbreaking than any conclusion I reached on my own.

"It's ugly, I know," she laughs shakily. "Sorry, I didn't mean to gross you out -"

I turn and lace my arms around her, careful not to put too much pressure or squeeze tight to the point she'd feel trapped. Her mouth against my chest makes me shiver, but I suppress it at the last second. I can see her scar on the top of her still-wet head. She smells like almonds and forest pine.

"There is nothing about it that is ugly," I say. "May I?"

She hesitates, and nods. I reach around and bring her wrist up, gently running my fingers over the marks. The raised ridges are rough, but in other parts, silky. I trace around each circle with my thumb.

"It looks like a galaxy," I say. "Full of stars and supernovas and conductive cryogeysers and a lot of wonderful science things I could go on to list that would probably bore the hell out of you."