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The first time you see one of his markings, it’s by accident.
You're brushing your teeth, half-asleep in your shared apartment, when Baby walks in without a word. He’s always quiet in the morning—still bleary-eyed, still warm from sleep, the black sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his hands.
But today, something’s different.
He leans over the sink to spit out mouthwash, and when he straightens up, the edge of his collar dips just slightly. You catch it in the mirror, just a glimpse, no more than an inch, of patterned violet spreading along his collarbone. Geometric and jagged, like cracked glass under his skin.
Your toothbrush slows.
The air shifts slightly, as if the room itself holds its breath.
You don’t say anything.
Not because it scares you—it doesn’t. You’ve known what he is for a while now. But you also know him—the way he wraps his jokes around silence, the way he keeps a careful distance from vulnerability unless you’re patient enough to wait him out. Like everything that matters most to him is kept behind a locked door, and you’re still learning the shape of the key.
So instead of asking, you slide a hand into his and squeeze.
He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t pull away either. His fingers twitch once before curling around yours, warm and quiet.
Later that morning, you find that hoodie tossed near the laundry basket—half-on, half-off, like he didn’t care how it landed.
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The second time is intentional.
You’re curled on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing in the background neither of you are really watching. Your head rests on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder, when he shifts and rolls up one sleeve.
You blink.
The skin beneath is no longer the pale peachy tone he wears in public. It’s lilac—soft and smooth, with a shimmer under the light. His forearm is crisscrossed with deep violet markings, the same jagged ones you saw on his collarbone. They trail up past his elbow, disappearing under his shirt.
He doesn’t draw attention to it. Doesn’t say anything. He just lets it be there—visible.
You lift your head to look at him.
“Pretty,” you say simply.
Baby makes a quiet sound, something between a laugh and a breath he forgot to hold. He tries to act nonchalant—tries to look away—but there’s a pink flush creeping up the tips of his ears.
You kiss his arm just once, near the darkest mark.
“I meant it,” you add, resting your cheek against his chest again. “You don’t have to hide things from me.”
He says nothing, but later that night he falls asleep on top of you, full weight, head on your chest, like he trusts you to hold all of him.
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The claws come next.
You’re chopping vegetables in the kitchen when Baby comes up behind you and lazily wraps his arms around your waist. You’re used to the warmth of his hands, the quiet pressure of his chest against your back—but today, you notice something new.
His nails are longer. Sharper. Just enough to prick slightly when he drags them gently along your side.
You pause, glancing down.
His hand rests flat against your stomach—skin still smooth, still lilac, but now tipped in elegant, curved claws. Not monstrous, but definitely inhuman.
He notices you staring and starts to pull back, muscles tense.
You stop him with a hand over his.
“I like them,” you murmur.
He doesn’t respond immediately. You feel the moment where he debates pretending like it didn’t happen. But then—
“I file them down most days.”
His voice is low. Almost embarrassed. Like this tiny part of himself, something natural to him, needs an apology.
You hum. “You don’t have to around me.”
“…I know,” he says, but you feel the way his arms tighten around you, the small exhale against your shoulder. Like maybe he needed to hear it anyway.
When he holds your hand that night, his claws graze your knuckles gently. Purposefully.
You don’t let go.
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Sometimes you wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror.
Does he only notice the claws, the cracked-glass skin, the glow in his eyes that sets him apart? Does he trace his markings and wonder if he’s too much—or worse, not enough—when he’s just being real?
Because when you look at him all sharp teeth and soft hoodie sleeves, glowing eyes that give too much away—you just see him. Baby. The boy who makes you ramen at 2am when you’re sad. The one who insists on watching horror movies but hides behind you at the jumpscares. The one who gets too hot at night but still clings to you like a second blanket. The one who hums off-key when he thinks you’re asleep. Who asks if you ate, then pretends he wasn’t worried when you say no.
The one who’s learning to let you see him, piece by piece.
And you love every one.
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It’s a late Sunday morning when you finally see his full skin.
You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, folding laundry in the soft buzz of summer heat, when Baby walks in shirtless. Not just shirtless—bare-chested, relaxed, no hoodie, no long sleeves, no effort to hide.
Lilac from throat to waist. Cracked-glass markings running down his ribs. Collarbones like amethyst under sunlight.
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over with a pile of socks in his hands and flops down beside you like it’s nothing.
But you can feel the quiet tension under his casual movements. The way he pretends not to be watching your reaction from the corner of his eye.
You lean in and kiss his shoulder.
“Still you,” you whisper. “Always you.”
This time, he doesn’t hide the way his hands shake for a second before he wraps his arms around you. Doesn’t hide when he exhales into your hair and says, raw and real:
“Thanks for waiting.”
You press your face against his neck. His skin is warm. Familiar. Yours.
“I wasn’t waiting,” you whisper back. “I was just walking with you.”
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It becomes routine after that.
Claws click gently against his phone as he texts. You catch him half-shifted in the kitchen, markings crawling up his neck like vines. Sometimes his golden eyes glow when he’s laughing—full and bright and unbothered.
He doesn’t hide anymore.
You still remember the version of him from your first few dates—the hoodie up to his knuckles, that too-cool-for-school shrug, the shadows that followed him when he thought you weren’t looking. This Baby feels lighter. Not different. Just unburdened.
You don’t ask anymore.
He shows you because he wants to now.
And one night, curled up together under a blanket that’s too warm for summer but perfect for hiding in, he tilts your chin up and rests his forehead against yours.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hmm?”
“You—you’re not scared of me, right?”
Your heart tugs.
“Never.”
He nods once. Then slowly, carefully, he pulls off the last barrier: a glamour spell that softened his features. The change is subtle but stunning—his smile sharper, teeth a little longer, eyes glowing gold with slit pupils.
It hits you that this is the first time he’s let you see him like this—unguarded, spell-less, fully himself.
You press your forehead to his, breath warm between you.
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.
He bites his lip. His claws flex once at your waist. Then, finally, he relaxes—melting into your arms like he was always meant to fit there.
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Little by little, he let you in.
And now, there’s nothing he hides.
Not his markings, not his claws, not the fire in his eyes.
Not his heart, either.
And that’s the part you love most of all.