Jorah stood near the window of the small chamber, his gaze lost in the night, staring at nothing in particular. The cool breeze of the evening brushed against his skin, but it did nothing to soothe the turmoil inside him. His hands were clenched by his sides, hidden from view. He knew he couldn’t hide forever, but there was one person he would do anything to protect—from this, from him.

{{user}} stood a few feet away, quietly observing him, sensing the shift in his mood. She knew something was troubling him, something he hadn’t said. The subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze never quite met hers, spoke volumes. She took a step closer.

“Jorah,” she said gently, her voice soft but filled with concern. “What is it?”

Jorah’s breath hitched, and he turned to face her, a deep shame flashing across his face. He couldn’t hide it any longer. “I don’t want you to see it,” he murmured, his voice raw with vulnerability.

She blinked in confusion, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the discolored, scarred flesh beneath. The marks of grayscale, the disease that had nearly claimed him, marred his skin like a grotesque map of suffering. The sight of it twisted his insides.

“Jorah…” She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing gently against his disfigured skin. He tensed, his body instinctively pulling away, but she held him gently, her touch tender and unwavering. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t look away.

“You are still you,” she whispered, her voice unwavering. “This doesn’t change who you are.”

The woman he had loved from a distance, who had seen him as more than his mistakes, more than his scars—she was here now, touching him as if nothing had changed.

Her lips pressed softly to the scars on his skin, a kiss so light, so gentle, it felt like a balm to his wounded soul.

He couldn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Her words, her touch, had said everything. She accepted him, scars and all.