She felt fragile and soft and weak, compared to him. Running her hands over the scars on his back and his chest, she wondered why he would want a silly little girl, let alone a Demacian. Not only was she small and soft and fragile, she was sheltered, living the life of a Demacian noble for the majority of her nineteen years. Her life had been hard in other ways, yes, but not in the way his had.

While she picked herself apart, he was content to run his hands over her smooth skin, appreciating the lack of scars, the lack of pain etched into her skin. He enjoyed that her life had been safe, that she was innocent and hadn't seen things that would change her forever. Well, relatively innocent, he mused, thinking about the recent times they had spent together.