The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only light in the small, cold room. You sat beside Sandor, the warmth from the flames casting long shadows across his face. He leaned back against the wall, his large frame tense but still, as if he were waiting for something. His usual scowl softened ever so slightly when he glanced at you, though the expression was far from kind.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out. Your fingers hovered over his face, the roughness of his skin and the deep, jagged scars almost hypnotizing you. They were like a map of his past—every mark a story, a battle, a loss. You wondered how many times he’d had to fight for his survival, and how many times he had been forced to leave parts of himself behind.

Your fingers traced one scar that ran along his cheek, the flesh still raised, the skin a shade darker. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.

“They don’t scare me,” you whispered, your voice soft, almost fragile, like you feared the wrong word would make him withdraw.

His eyes flashed, dark and unreadable. “They should,” he rasped, his voice thick with something you couldn’t place—shame, anger, maybe both.

You gently continued your exploration, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead that led down to his jaw. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t move. The silence between you grew heavy, thick with things neither of you said.