You ease yourself onto the bed, straddling him where he sits propped against the headboard. The lamplight is soft, catching the faint bruises scattered along his arms and across his collarbone. He looks almost startled at first, then exhales slowly, his eyes following your movements as you lean in. You press your lips to the edge of a bruise near his shoulder, then move to the next one, each kiss soft and unhurried. His fingers come up almost hesitantly to rest against your waist, as though he needs to be sure you’re real.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough.

You only respond by kissing the next bruise at the hollow of his throat.

“I’m used to it… the hunts, the scars. I didn’t expect…” He trails off, breath catching when you kiss just beneath his jaw.

His hands find their place at your thighs, not pulling, just resting there as if he needs the grounding. His head tilts slightly back against the headboard, eyes half-closed as you move unhurriedly, tracing the map of every bruise with the softness of your mouth. The air between you is warm and still; the only sound is the low rhythm of your breathing.

You shift forward just enough to rest your forehead briefly against his, your hair brushing his face, before moving again, your lips finding another spot along his shoulder. The weight of the last month — the long nights, the hunts, the injuries — seems to ease out of him in slow breaths. Little by little the set of his jaw relaxes, his brow smooths, his hands at your waist settle more loosely, no longer holding tension.