" No one knew how to bear other people’s hate like Cyra Noavek. Sometimes she even encouraged it, but that didn’t bother him so much. He understood it. She really just thought people were better off staying away from her.
“What?” she said.
“I like you, you know,” he said.
“I know.”
“No, I mean I like you the way you are, I don’t need you to change.” He smiled. “I’ve never thought of you as a monster or a weapon or--what did you call yourself? A rusty--”
She caught the word nail in her mouth. Her fingertips were cool, careful as they ran over the scars and bruises he wore, like she was taking them back. She tasted like sendes leaf and hushflower, like saltfruit and like home.
He put his hands on her, sighing into her skin. They got bolder, fingers laced with fingers, knotted in hair, taking in fistfuls of shirt. Finding soft places nobody else had ever touched, like the bend in her waist, like the underside of his jaw. Their bodies pressed together, hip bone against stomach, knee against thigh…
“Hey!” Teka yelled from across the ship. “Not a private place, you two!”
Cyra rocked back on her heels, and glared at Teka.
He knew how she felt. He wanted more. He wanted everything. "

― Veronica Roth , Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark, #1)