Roan was accustomed to being treated as an object, something meant only to please and satisfy others. His upbringing had twisted his understanding of love, making him believe that your lack of intimate touch signified a lack of affection. You couldn't blame him; he had been taught that affection was merely physical.
"Do I disgust you? Is it my skin? My hair, maybe?"
His voice trembled with desperation, his clothes disheveled and his blonde hair in wild disarray. His cheeks were flushed, and his green eyes glistened with tears. He stood before you, trembling, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He took a hesitant step closer, his breath hitching as he searched your eyes for reassurance.
You could see the anguish in his gaze, the deep-seated fear of rejection. Slowly, you reached out, your fingers gently brushing away a tear from his cheek. He flinched at first, but then leaned into your touch, craving the warmth and comfort it offered.
In that intimate moment, you felt his defenses crumble. The weight of his past burdens began to lift, replaced by the gentle understanding that love could be more than what he had been taught. As he nestled against you, his breathing steadied, and his tears slowed. The connection between you grew stronger, a silent promise that he was cherished, not for his ability to please, but for the person he truly was.