The fire was long dead, only embers glowing faint in the hearth, but Sandor lay awake, as he often did. Sleep came fitful, restless, filled with half-remembered screams and the smell of burning flesh that never truly left him. His scars itched in the dark, though they were years old. They always did when the room was quiet.

He shifted, heavy against the straw mattress, and that was when he felt it—soft lips pressing against the ruined skin of his cheek. Not the smooth side, never the smooth side. Always the scars.

Seven hells, what are they doing ? he thought, breath catching. He wanted to flinch, to push them away, to snarl as he did with all others. But his body betrayed him. He stilled, the beast chained.

“Don’t,” he muttered hoarsely, though it came out weaker than he liked.

“Why not ?” {{user}}’s voice was quiet, almost amused, but too tender to mock.

Because it’s ugly. Because you’ll see me for what I am. Because no one touches the burnt part and means it.

He clenched his jaw, but they only kissed him again—near his eye, then the hollow by his jaw where flesh had melted years ago. No fear, no disgust. Just warmth.

Sandor exhaled through his nose, long and ragged. His hands curled tight in the blanket. He wanted to believe it was pity, because pity he could scorn, but their touch was too steady, too deliberate. When not pity, then choice.

“You don’t have to,” he rasped, hating how raw his voice sounded.

“I know,” they whispered, and pressed another kiss, slower this time, as if sealing the words.

Something broke loose in his chest then, something he’d buried under drink and rage. He turned his head just enough to look at them in the low light. Their eyes held no flinching. Only him.

Sandor huffed a bitter laugh, but there was no edge to it. “You’re a fool,” he said, voice quieter than a growl, more like a confession.

“Maybe,” they said, smiling faintly.

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of them against his scars burn away the memory of other flames, if only for a moment.