While he would never admit it, he hated his scars. Even as you so lovingly traced your fingers just barely over them, just whispers of touches, Bill fought to pull away. He’d often just let you do, not at all minding. Here you were yet again, sat in his lap and his arms snaked around you to hold you in place. “You don’t have to touch them.” He eventually spoke, turning his head just enough to let his lips meet your hand.