Cregan Stark moved through the quiet of the night with the heaviness of a man finally letting the day slip from his shoulders. His eyelids were low, his mind unguarded, and he thought nothing of pulling his tunic over his head and setting it aside. The movement revealed the pale stretch marks that crossed the breadth of his shoulders—marks you had never seen before. Your eyes lingered.

He felt the shift in the air immediately. Cregan was always attentive. His gaze found yours, and instead of covering himself or turning away, he offered that faint, warming smile that softened the severity of his features. When your eyes fell to the floor, he extended his hand to you without a word. You took it, small within his own, and before you could even process the size of him or the closeness, he drew you into his arms.

You met his eyes shyly. He stayed utterly still, patient as ever, waiting for you to take what you wished at your own pace. He always waited for you.

You reached out, tentative but sincere. Your fingertips brushed his shoulder in a featherlight touch, and goosebumps rose across his skin. His breath hitched; his mind blurred. He might have lost himself in that feeling if not for the way your stretch made him notice the distance you had to cross.

He noticed. He always did.

Cregan took your hand gently—firm enough to ground you, soft enough to reassure. He lifted it from his skin with clear reluctance, then guided you toward your shared bed. In the few steps it took to reach it, worry crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far? Were those marks something he did not wish to share? Even knowing him, even knowing the tenderness he lived by, a quiet doubt flickered.

He dispelled it instantly.

At the bedside, he raised your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, steady kiss to your knuckles. Warm. Certain. An answer in itself.

This was Cregan. The man who patted his horse after every ride. The man who spoke to you in a voice he used for no one else. The man who offered his arm even on the smallest stair, who listened to every word you breathed, who kissed the frown from your brow. He was not a man who would burden you with blame for something so human as curiosity. He was not a man ashamed of his scars.

He proved it when he guided you to sit on the fur laden mattress—and then lowered himself before you.

He knelt without hesitation, as though he had decided the very moment he saw the awe in your eyes. Cregan bowed his head into your lap, giving you a piece of himself without reservation, offering trust as plainly as if he’d placed it in your palms.

A simple, human thing.

And he let you touch them as though it was nothing less than a gift.