The first time he sees your scars is the first time he has you undress for him. It doesn't matter if they're not very visible, if they're many years old. He's observant, and with how his eyes roam over every inch of your skin, it's not a detail he misses.

At first, he goes quiet.

Then a hand softly trails over the marks, feeling the ridges. "What's this from?" he asks.

Maybe his voice is gentle. Maybe it's firm like an accusation. It's hard to read him, to tell if he knows what they're from. To the average person, scars like that make no sense.

But he's far from average, isn't he?

Whether he knows their origin or not, he makes you tell him regardless. Waits patiently for your hesitation to subside, for your nerves to ease. By the time you've submitted to his whims enough to disrobe, words- even difficult ones- aren't that much harder to follow. You tell him. Maybe you throw excuses in. "It was a long time ago." "I don't do that anymore." "It was a hard time in my life."

His eyes narrow just slightly, gaze focused but hard to discern. When he doesn't reply, you grow more nervous.

"I'm sorry," you say.

That's when he pulls you into his arms, shushes you, tightens his hold, plants a kiss in your hair.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he says. After all, he'll never let you fall into such despair ever again. He'll keep you safe from everything... Even yourself.

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