City of scars, city of cigars, city of all those rock stars, city full of those damned luxury Jaguar cars that interrupted the delicate symphony that your whispers were for Remus. In the old London—in the new London, ruled by hippies that were not only a fashion in those 70s, but also a lifestyle.

In the silence of your room, in your parents' house in London, you and the werewolf snuggled under the thin sheets of your bed. The cold of the night runs over your skin as the soft movement of your heads against the pillow ruffles your hair. You gently take his arm by the wrist and run your eyes over the scars of the full moon that were engraved on his skin over the years. Each one of them of a different shape, a different length, a different tone. Most have texture on his skin, but not all of them.

After looking at your boyfriend’s forearm, you pulled at his wrist so you could rest your lips on each mark, each wound. You closed your eyes softly, illuminated only by the streetlight coming through your window. “Your scars are like shooting stars,” you whispered. Remus felt naked, completely hypnotized and idiotized by your delicate touch. His heart was beating faster than his brain could even register—he was probably going to spit it out of his mouth at any moment without realizing it and ruin the beauty of the moment. “I always want to see them.”

No sentence, not even a coherent word formed in Remus’ mind, he only repeated your name like a mental prayer. You always had this effect on him, ever since he first saw you, and it only got worse—the more he saw you, the more lost he felt. His mind seemed to completely blur and nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. He only kissed the ground you walked on.

"Do they bother you?" He couldn't help it. He needed a reminder that his scars didn't scare you.