It was late, and the dim yellow light in Simon’s office cast long shadows across the walls. “Sit,” he’d said, voice low and edged with something raw and vulnerable he fought hard to keep hidden.

Simon’s hand lifted, hesitating over the edge of his balaclava, before he finally pulled it off. The sight of his scarred face, spoke of old wounds, battles not only in the field but of the pain he carried, and the fear that you’d look away like all the others before you.

“Everyone leaves.” His voice broke. “Soon as they see… this.” His fingers hovered over the twisted lines on his face, tracing the paths of those scars, each one a reminder of what he’d suffered and survived. Each scar a reason he believed no one could ever love him.

He lowered himself to his knees before you, grabbing your hands in his. Those rough, calloused fingers trembled as he held on, a silent plea in the way he clung to you like a man starved of touch, of warmth, of trust.

Please choose me. Nobody ever chooses me.

He swallowed, voice cracking, barely a whisper as he looked up at you with eyes glossy, raw. “Please… accept my v-v-version of love. Pl-ease.”