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he notices. of course he does. he notices the scars on your thighs when you're wearing shorts. he notices the scabs and cuts on your hands. he even notices the purple crescent moons on your palm, caused by your frustration and nails that haven't been cut.

he picks up on your behaviors. too eager to give, to help, to please. noticing it is one thing, but how he actually acts on it is something that wrecks you. you love it, you hate it. you love being cared for, and you hate getting better.

tonight, you two lay on top of his bed with but a blanket half-covering the two of you. he wears a sweater and pajama pants, you wear one of his t-shirts and some shorts. it's been quiet for a while, in a good way.

the only source of light in his room is a small, warm-toned lamp that sits on his nightstand. you lay on him— not fully though— his chest pressed against your back as you hold his hand. not like how couples hold hands as they walk around or cuddle, no, you hold it like you're inspecting it. playing with it, even. you fold in his fingers until he forms a fist, and then you open it up again. and he lets you.

his hands are long, cold, and pale. yours have scabs and shallow cuts on them. he doesn't say anything as you repetitively play with his fingers and you run the pads of your thumbs over his palm. his other hand rests on your thigh, running up and down over the scars, feeling them. tracing over them. he treats your scars more carefully than you've ever tended to them. the feeling of his fingertips along your scarred skin makes you shiver.

you feel his hands start to move, and yours still. he grabs one of yours, and he copies your behavior. he traces over each knuckle and scab, gently kisses each angry, agitated patch of skin. eventually, he interlocks his fingers with yours and brings your hands up to where he can leave a kiss that lingers to the back of your hand.

his other hand finds its way to your hair, and in silence, you let him play with it. he scratches your scalp and runs his fingers through your hair, "you're always so touch starved." he murmurs as you practically melt into his hands. you don't bother to reply properly, humming almost absentmindedly.

what time was it? did you have things to do? should you be at home right now? you can't remember. all you know is the comfort that you're usually hesitant to accept. this always happens whenever ray notices a few new 'scratches' on you.

"don't worry," ray says, almost as if he can hear your thoughts. "everything's been taken care of. just relax for a bit." he continues to soothe you, and you have to fight to keep your eyes open.

"everything?" you ask,

"everything."

you turned over, letting yourself snuggle up to his side, your back to the lamp on his nightstand. you close your eyes. the bed felt warm, cozy, even if it was cold in his room.

"i like when you treat me like this." you mumble,

"i know."

"you don't get tired of me?"

"never."