Every time he finds the cuts and bruises, old and new, on her he frowns and studies them with utmost annoyance. She'll just smile goofily and try and hide the winces and twinges of pain as he pokes and prods about her injuries. How she always manages to get hurt and not notice until he points it out always escapes him. It's like she's built up immunity to knowing when she's been hurt or not.
There was one scar on her right shoulder-blade that worried him particularly. It was pink and long, it seemed to have been a deep cut; she hadn't realized it was there until he asked her how she managed to acquire it. She had just shrugged and grinned, saying she probably had a bad run in with some sharp object of some sort. Silently he wondered how she could miss something like that; it had probably bled like a river.
There are so many things she'll never be able to tell him. Like how she always has a fresh cut or bruise every single day. She'll never tell him that she's purposefully accident prone just to see the limit of how long she can go without toppling over in pain. She wouldn't ever tell him it was some type of morbid game she developed when she was a child to escape her emotional inadequacy.
So when her shirt rises on her stomach or her jacket sleeve falls to her elbow, and he sees the damage she'll just smile and act as innocent and oblivious as she can. She doesn't want him to worry any more about her then is absolutely necessary.
Maybe one day, if she ever gets the guts to tell him, she'll actually tell him why she's always banged up and fresh with wounds. Of course, hell may very well freeze over before that happens she'll add cynically.