You’ve watched him shed his armor before—clothes shrugged off in quiet, unhurried movements, mask left behind on the dresser, leaving him unadorned in the lamplight. But tonight, as Simon sits shirtless on the edge of the bed, the soft glow spills over his back and shoulders, painting every scar in stark relief.

You see them all now, as if for the first time: pale tracks crossing the breadth of his shoulders, a rough patch near his spine, old bullet wounds puckered tight. Some scars are thin and fleeting, nearly lost in the planes of muscle; others are deep, twisting—testaments to close calls and brutal nights you’ll never truly know. The scars on his arms and ribs, too, each one a history lesson in survival, a ledger written in flesh.

He moves through his nightly routine, checking the weapon in his nightstand, but you can’t look away. You drink him in, every flaw, every broken line, feeling a fierce kind of tenderness blooming in your chest. He’s beautiful, not in spite of these marks, but because of them. Each scar is proof he’s come home—again and again—to you.

He senses your gaze, stills, but doesn’t turn. After a moment, he speaks—voice low, thickened by something almost vulnerable. “Never did look pretty, did I?”

You reach out, tracing one of the longest scars along his back, fingers gentle. He tenses, then relaxes, letting you memorize the path of old pain.

“Don’t reckon I’d trade any of ‘em,” he says, softer now. “Means I made it. Means I had somethin’ worth survivin’ for.”

Your hand lingers, silent reassurance, every touch a promise: you love every part of him, every scar, every story he’s ever carried home beneath his skin.