Lucien wrung his hands nervously in front of him, pacing back and forth in front of her bedroom door. He wanted-needed-to show her. With a deep breath, he stopped and knocked on her door.

Jean opened the door and his breath caught: she was truly beautiful. The soft light of the lamp illuminated behind her, forming a halo-effect around her curling hair. Her face was devoid of any makeup and her eyes brightened when she saw him.

Lucien wasn't sure how it was possible to fall more in love with someone every time you looked at them.

She smiled at him and opened the door wider, allowing him in. "Lucien? It's late. Was something the matter?"

Entering the room, he took a moment to inhale. The room was permeated in Jean's smell: her perfume, minty toothpaste, and freshly cut flowers. It was a comforting scent and he couldn't wait until they shared the same bedroom so this was with him always.

"Lucien?" The worry was evident in her voice.

He turned to face her, eyes downcast. "Jean, I wanted to talk to you about our wedding night."

Looking up at her, he saw that her cheeks flushed at the mention. "What about it?"

Hurrying the conversation along, desperate to get this over with, Lucien continued. "It's just that, I don't want you to be surprised that night. I don't want it to alarm you and I thought it might be best if I just show you?"

Jean's eyes widened. "Lucien, what-I don't know what you think my experience is, but I remind you that I have had children? I know what one looks like." She crossed her arms in front of her, embarrassed and angry.

Lucien tilted his head at her, confused. Then he replayed his words in his mind and realized he hadn't made himself clear at all. His own cheeks suffused with color, he hastily corrected himself. "No, love, no. I'm sorry, that's not what I-"

He sighed heavily then looked back up at her. "Let me just start over. Here," he gestured for her to sit on the edge of the bed. "Trust me, Jeannie. It's not what you think."

Hearing the sincerity in his voice and catching sight of the tremble in his fingers, Jean nodded and crossed the room and sat on the bed, looking at him expectantly.

Lucien licked his lips. "I know you know about, about me being in a POW camp. They, uh, they hurt me, Jean." He looked up at her, eyes pained. It was hard to talk about this with anyone, let alone Jean. Jean, whom he wanted to be so strong for.

"They liked torturing us. One of the easiest ways was the whip."

He let his admission hang in the air for a moment. He was lost in the memories: the sound of the whip cracking, the sting of flesh being split open, the smell of body odor and fear.

"Lucien?"

Her hand rested on his forearm, gently squeezing to bring him back to her, to this moment. He covered her hand with his in gratitude.

He continued, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. "They used the whip on me. Quite a bit, truth be told."

Jean's grip on his arm tightened and he heard her intake of breath. "Lucien, you don't have to tell me this, if you don't want to."

He shook his head, desperate to get this out. If he didn't get it out, it would continue to eat him alive. And he trusted Jean-loved Jean. She would never judge him or use this against him.

"On our wedding night, I don't want you to be disgusted or shocked by what you see. I wanted to show you the scars now so you could get used to the idea or," he looked up at her, helplessly. "Or if you can't stand the sight of it, we can start coming up with ideas on how to avoid it?"

Jean frowned at the suggestion but before she could refute it, he was taking a step back from her, his hands going to the buttons of his shirt. "Just let me show you."

She nodded and watched from her position on the bed as he unfastened each button with trembling hands, his breath coming out in sharp, shallow huffs. Her heart ached for him.

Meanwhile, Lucien's mind was racing, struggling to not stray too far into the past, needing to stay in the present. He was safe; he was with Jean.

Closing his eyes, he turned and put his back to Jean and with a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled his shirt from his shoulders and down his arms. The fabric fell to the floor with a gentle rustle and he stood bare from the waist up, waiting Jean's reaction.

Behind him, he heard Jean's sharp intake of breath and a soft, "Oh, Lucien..."

His shoulders drooped and he waited for the revulsion, waited for her to ask him to cover the ugly marks, to perhaps wear a vest to bed on their wedding night-anything so she would never have to see this part of him again.

But he underestimated her.

He hadn't heard her move but she was suddenly behind him, cool fingertips ghosting over the scars of his back. Lucien knew what she was looking at; had seen it in the mirror morning after morning. His back was a map of criss-crossing scars, some skin so twisted, discolored, and deformed it didn't resemble skin anymore.

Her nails grazed over the raised, angry skin and he shivered. No one had touched him like this in so long, never mind his back. He felt her warm breath condense over his skin as she leaned in close to examine each mark.

"What did they do to you, love?"

Lucien jumped at the feel of her lips pressing against each scar. He didn't deserve her gentleness. He felt too exposed, to vulnerable. He wanted to grab ahold of these emotions, these memories, and shove them back down.

Jean's lips pressed against his skin over and over, offering comfort, hoping that somehow her touch could heal him. It was too much.

"Don't," he rasped out. His heart was hammering in his chest and he screwed his eyes closed, wanting to disappear. "They're terrible, Jean. Don't touch them."

Jean's hands trailed down his back and he felt her step around so she was facing him, her hands still warm on his back. "I'm sorry, Lucien. I didn't know they still hurt you."

He shook his head, eyes still closed. "It doesn't. They're just remnants of a nightmare."

Jean's hands on his face forced him to open his eyes and he looked down at her. Her eyes were sparkling with tears, but her face was fierce, determined.

"That's right. They're remnants. They're part of you." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, offering what little comfort she could. Pulling away, she rubbed her fingers over his lips, smoothing away the lines around his mouth. "You went through something terrible, Lucien. But these scars?"

She slid her hands under his arms and up over his back, tracing the marks again. He sighed at the touch and slumped forward into her arms. She pressed a kiss to the side of his head and continued, "These scars show that you survived. That you lived."

Flattening her hands against his back, she held him to her, feeling him shake. "You lived and you're here with me. How could I ever be disgusted by these scars? They're part of you and I love you."

Lucien let out a small sob and buried his face into her neck, letting her hold him and chase away the last of his ghosts. He murmured l love you over and over again and breathed in the scent of her, focusing on her touch.

After some time, he pulled away, cupping her face in his. "I love you, Jeannie." She smiled at him, nuzzling into his touch. "I love you, too."

He pressed one, two, three kisses to her lips, pouring love and gratitude into each one. Gathering her up into his arms, swaying them slightly from side to side, Lucien knew they were going to be okay. Jean was strong enough to hold him up when he felt broken.

They were going to be okay.