She's just finished showering when she catches a glimpse of the spider web of welts adorning her back. She can never see the extent of the damage (something she's both grateful and resentful for), but as she reaches behind her and runs her fingers down the ridges of her scars, she's struck by how hideous they must be.
A permanent reminder of all she had endured at the hands of perverted men.
She leans her head against the mirror, her breath adding to the fog from the warmth of her shower.
Then she registers the door opening.
She doesn't turn around. She knows who it is. In the gentle way his mouth caresses her name.
"Lumen."
She mumbles incoherently against the glass.
She hears him draw closer, speaking into the steam, "I knocked."
She breathes out, opens her eyes to look at his reflection, but his eyes are focused on her back. She lifts her robe to cover them, swiveling to face him. His expression is unreadable and she's suddenly afraid that he finds them as grotesque as she does.
She tightens the robe around her body, "I didn't mean to worry you. I just...saw them." She doesn't clarify. (Doesn't have to.) "I didn't realize how ugly they were."
He frowns (not in disgust), then he takes a step forward, then another until he's standing right in front of her and she's more than a little perplexed (unsettled) by him.
She looks up at him, at the intense orbs that bore down on her, on her neck, clean and exposed. His fingers come up, barely brushing up and down the side of her neck and she has to concentrate to keep her balance at his touch. Then his hand lowers (slowly) to her shoulder, taking her robe with it, but before it slides down the curve of her shoulder, she stiffens. Then he's staring so deeply into her eyes and she's certain he can see all that she tries so desperately to hide.
Her fears, her doubts, her self-loathing.
That familiar ache in the center of her chest whenever she looks at him and tries to imagine her life without him in it only to realize that she simply can't.
He implores through their gaze for her to trust him.
And she does.
She loosens her grip and closes her eyes as the robe falls, pooling at her elbows. His hands drift to her nape, tracing random patters as it journeys languorously downward. She releases a soft whimper as his fingers follow the line of her scars, but just before she pulls away, his lips touch her forehead.
And it's everything.
It's in moments like this that make her stay, that make her hope that the day may come when she could be as beautiful as he thinks she is, that one day she may deserve him.
TBC
A/N: Thanks for your reviews.