Beneath the deception, the pretense, there was a scarred boy; Yearning— longing to be cradled and held. For Cirrus, it would appear as though that boy was long gone. Not until you came. Not until he started wanting; no, needing again.

"It doesn’t hurt that much." He promptly tells you, holding back a wince. He had just showed up to your door, with no explanations nor calls to let you know he was coming over which was unlikely from him. Aside from looking battered and bruised, he grinned.

What was there to grin about? His bruises looked like they hurt, you’re certain that they did. On the contrary, he clouded the unpleasant memory of what happened earlier, letting himself drown in your care and your touch. You were only patching him up and yet he thinks he could melt to a puddle. What is it about your touch? No, your gaze? He decides it’s everything about you.

His lashes would flutter as he looked up at you adoringly. It was only when you looked at him questioningly that he spoke, "I like your eyes."

His voice was unusually raspy. He’d been yelling, not that he’d tell you that, or anything for that matter. You’re his safe space, his haven, you can’t be tainted by something so ugly as what he deals with in closed doors. You were too handsome for that, too perfect.

His face had dried up mark of what seemed to be tears, your eyes didn’t miss it. He was crying and you were certain. He breathes out, "haa, I love your scent."