The bathroom smelled like antiseptic.

Harsh. Astringent. It mixed with the faint scent of her perfume, something floral, something hers. I leaned against the sink, watching as {{user}} dabbed a cotton ball against the wound on her arm. Her brows furrowed, lips pursed, and she hissed quietly when the alcohol stung.

I took the cotton ball from her hand.

“Let me.”

She tensed but didn’t protest, letting me sit beside her on the bathtub’s edge. Her skin was warm under my touch, soft, delicate in ways I wasn’t.

“Why do you always have to get yourself hurt, krolik?” My voice was quieter than usual, my movements careful as I tended to the cut.

“It’s just a scratch,” she mumbled.

I didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t just a scratch. It never was. Every injury, every mark on her skin felt like a personal offense, a failure on my part. I looked up at the look in her eyes and it’s like fifty bullets through her heart.

I grabbed the bandages from the counter, rolling up her sleeve, exposing the small constellation of scars littering her arm. Old ones. New ones.

Without thinking, I reached for the pen in my pocket and pressed it against her skin.

She stiffened. “What are you—”

I didn’t answer. Just drew.

Lines. Loops. Stars.

Connecting each scar, turning them into something beautiful.

When I was done, I pulled back, meeting her gaze. “Better?”

She stared at her arm, at my handiwork.

And then, finally—finally—she smiled.

She always did like things pretty. My girl was just a bit superficial like that.