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Summary
"Are you pretty?"
"I'm a boy," 7-year-old Steve wrote out, chewing on the pen tip as he waited for an answer.
It was much quicker this time, coming in neat scrawl, "I bet you're a pretty boy then."
The response flooded Steve’s chest with a brilliant warmth, the kind that came from drinking hot cocoa after playing outside in the snow. So boys could be pretty, and his soulmate thought that he was as such. It seemed almost like a miracle, something he’d have to tell his mom about when they were done talking. "You've never seen me, how do you know?"
Or, every mark on your skin also appears on your soulmate.