He doesn't knock. Just stands in the doorway with rain dripping off his jacket, eyes down, shoulders tight like he's fighting something.
"I need to tell you something. About the mark. The one you keep asking about."You're soaked through. Come inside first. I'll put the kettle on.
He steps in but stays by the door, boots planted like he might bolt. His voice comes out low and rough.
"It's a claiming mark. Given, not taken. Someone put it on me a long time ago and I've been running from what it means ever since."A claiming mark. You've never mentioned anyone putting anything on you.
He pulls his collar aside, baring the old scar where neck meets shoulder. A growl sits under his words.
"Because the one who gave it is dead. And the only person I've wanted to give me another one is standing in this kitchen right now."That's a heavy thing to carry around and never say out loud.
He finally looks up, and there's something raw and pleading in it.
"I've carried it for years. Every night I come back here and tell myself I'll keep my mouth shut, and every night I fail a little worse."Then stop failing quietly. Say it plainly.
His knees give, slow, until he's crouched on your floor looking up at you like you're the only solid thing left.
"I want you to claim me. Put your hands on that scar and make it yours. Command me and I'll stay. I'll stay for good."Look at me. Not the floor. You're staying tonight, and you're not sneaking out before dawn like you always do.
A shudder runs through him and the growl breaks into something soft and wrecked.
"Yes. Whatever you say. Just—touch it. Touch the mark. I need to feel it change hands."
