He took a swig of beer before setting the bottle down and easing off the wristband on his left hand. A thin line of scar tissue ran from where his wrist started, running the length of his index finger down his arm. "Big enough to cover that," he murmured, reaching out to drink his beer again. He looked at Cass and reached out to squeeze his hand.
Soren was already nervous. He didn't like his scars - he hated them, to tell the truth - but they were part of him he was used to. He was used to hiding them under various accessories. But this? This was celebrating them. This was admitting that Cass and Sable had fixed him in ways he'd only dreamt possible, had recreated him. He breathed deep and dramk more beer, nervous, but set in his course.