An old injury to your face left a nasty scar across your lips, stretching from your cheek and drawing diagonally to the middle of your chin.

Makarov, however, never saw you differently as much as you saw yourself differently.

Another morning of waking up beside him, and having him immediately take your face in his hands to kiss your scar.

"My beautiful, beautiful flower..." He murmured before he got to your lips, kissing you longer.