It's a week before he can manage to get things together, an outbreak of the flu keeping him busy at the surgery and with his patients. The entire time he wished Shelagh was still nursing as he had trudged through patient after patient, for he knew that her kind bedside manner would have put more people at ease than he could. When he finally has time, he invites her over for dinner, promising to buy take away so that she doesn't have to endure his cooking. She scoffs at him, insisting that she will cook and that he's just being daft.

Conversation throughout dinner is light and easy, discussing the quickly approaching wedding along with the various personalities of Poplar. He's careful in bringing up the nuns, allowing her to lead any conversations regarding her previous occupation, but she seems light hearted in her speech, relaxing with a cup of tea in her hand as the fire crackles behind the grate in the sitting room. He's glad Timothy is at his grandmother's tonight. He knows that his son still has a long way to go with his recovery, but he could tell the child was getting extremely restless being confined to the house for so long after the hospital. Even if it was only a night, this gave Timothy a change of scenery at the least.

Patrick takes a deep breath, unsure of how things are going to go. Since his conversation with Cynthia he had been extra vigilant when watching Shelagh, suddenly picking up on the way she seemed to shrink away from people, never really casting her own reflection a glance in the shop windows or mirrors she passed like the other women in Poplar did. Her clothes were modest and although they reflected the female structure, they were not truly tailored to her body, leaving enough fabric to hide her figure around her chest and waist. Aside from the little bit of time she spent in his flat before Christmas, he had never seen her with her hair down. She always wore it tightly back, almost as if she was ashamed of the femininity that the loose waves may bring to her. That morning before Timothy had fallen ill he remembered thinking how gorgeous she looked, the sun streaming in through the curtains and setting her hair aflame with streaks of gold and copper.

"I know you're probably going to scold me for this, but I bought you something," Patrick says, watching as Shelagh places her tea cup on the table, her eyes tracking him as he moves to the other end of the sitting room, pulling a box from beneath his armchair before crossing back to her and placing it on her lap. She looks at him with confusion before gingerly lifting the lid, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of the green dress nestled within the paper.

"Patrick, you didn't have to do this," she whispers, fingers tracing the edge of the neckline. Its slightly lower than she's used to wearing, but not in a way that would be immodest. Instead, she knows the scoop of fabric will show her collarbones and maybe just a hint of her bosom. On any other women she knows it would look beautiful, the stylish cut, the rich colour – it's like something from a magazine.

"I know, but I wanted to. Nurse Miller told me about the fabric and I just couldn't help but agree with her. You'll look lovely in this colour," he replies, taking her hand in his for a moment before she gives him a weak smile, placing the box on the table as she gets up and walks into the hall, her hands clutching the edge of the sideboard as she leans against it, her face unreadable in the mirror that rests on the wall in front of her. He can see the hesitation in the way she holds her body, her knuckles turning white against the dark wood.

"Shelagh," he breathes, crowding up against her back, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head on her shoulder, looking at the image of them in the mirror together. She blushes slightly, ducking her gaze so as not to meet his in the polished glass. He realised then how tiny she looks against him, his form dwarfing hers. She's delicate in his arms in that moment and he so desperately wants to protect her against the world and, more than likely, herself as well.

"I'm sorry I'm not... more for you," she mutters to the floor. He desperately wants to spin her around then and grab her by the shoulders until she listens to him, but he doesn't, knowing that his original idea of how to broach the subject was a better one.

"Do you know what I thought the first time I ever saw you?" he asks, stroking her arm gently, his breath warming her neck as he speaks.

"No," she replies, voice so quiet he barely catches it. He can feel the tension resonating in her body despite her attempts to calm herself.

"That you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," Patrick says, watching her in the mirror. She blushes even harder, still not meeting his gaze.

"You... you don't have to say things like that. My father told me I wasn't like the other girls... that I wouldn't ever look like them. I know I'm not pretty like Trixie or Jenny Lee," she mumbles, her fingers clinging into the fabric of her jumper. Instantly his ire rises, his mind whipping around the fact that it is her father that may have caused these thoughts to surface within her. How could a father have never told his daughter that she was beautiful?

"No, you're completely gorgeous, pretty isn't an adequate enough word for you," he insists. "You're absolutely perfect Shelagh." When she still doesn't reply he realises he needs to elaborate more. Before speaking to Cynthia he hadn't realised he had never voiced how much he loved the woman in his arms to her. He had never told her of how much he adored every inch of her, feeling like the luckiest man alive to have somehow won the love of the tiny woman. "Do you have any idea how much I love the feeling of your hand in mine? Our fingers fit so perfectly together." He gently takes her hand, entwining their digits and stroking the back of her palm.

"Patrick," she whispers.

"Or how much I love seeing you smile? Every time you smile at me I swear I feel my heart skip a beat. I remember the first time I truly felt that. Back before I knew my feelings for you. Before I could say them. My entire chest seized at the sight of you," he places a kiss on her cheek. "Do you have any idea how much I love you? How much I want you? How much I want to know what it feels like to have your skin against mine? I so often fantasise about what its going to feel like to have your hips in my hands, to know what you look like beneath your clothes, to watch you break apart beneath me. I want all of you Shelagh, so much so that it takes my breath away."

"You think that now but... you won't always think that," she says, voice cracking. He feels a lump in his throat then, a sudden horror filling his mind.

"Shelagh," he presses, feeling her wrench herself out of his arms, her hands scrabbling at the fabric of her blouse, pulling the hem from her skirt as she whips around, her back exposed to him and the light of the lamps from the sitting room that spill into the hallway.

"I am not beautiful," she half sobs, fingers clenched tightly in the fabric as Patrick's eyes slide to the strip of skin that is on display. Her lower back is scattered with pock-marks, the rounded scars marring her pale flesh light. He knows instantly what they are – cigarette burns. His heart seizes in his chest when he realises that her feelings of inadequacy go so much further that just living up to certain standards. Beyond the gaudy personalities of Poplar, she had been made to think that she wasn't attractive for years before joining the convent if the scars were correct. He could see her trembling, trying to keep the cries contained as she stands there and he instantly needs to fix this, to fix her.