"The last girl that was here still has the scar on her knee" he says, laughing between words, grinning at some joke she can't seem to find. She feels her smile go brittle and start to pull down at the edges. She can feel something inside her break open, letting the cold sink into her bones. She knew she wasn't the first, and she doubted she would be the last (no matter what he told her) but it was different to hear it coming from his lips. To hear she's just another conquest, another notch in his belt, being reduced to something less than a person, a number. A part of her knows he didn’t mean it, that those bullets from his mouth weren't meant for her, that his laugh is directed at someone other than her. But she's the one sitting in his lap, shirt on the floor, heart in her throat. Praying she hasn’t made a mistake, that he will still look at her like the world starts and ends in her eyes even after she buttons her shirt.