one muse sees the other's scars for the first time + Santiago Garcia
Rating/Warnings: M, cliché trope of being caught in the rain, Santi and the reader have been dating but haven't been intimate yet, mention of sex, mentions of old injuries, mentions of blades
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"Goddammit," Santi huffed as you stumbled into his apartment, soaked through to the bone. Thunder cracked overhead as he flipped on a light in order to see better. Outside, heavy rain pommeled the windows, the cause of you looking as if you'd decided to jump into a pool on the middle of fall.
While you stood in the doorway and shivered, Santi rushed without pause to the bedroom, where you heard the distinct sound of him rummaging through cabinets and drawers, complete with muffled swearing. When he returned, he had a change of clothes for both of you— although they weren't likely to fit you, they were the only option you had unless you wanted to get hypothermia.
"Get out of those clothes, cariño," He said softly, dark eyes brimming with concern, "You'll get sick."
Teeth chattering too badly to speak, you nodded, smiling a little when Santi turned his back on you so that you could change and dry off. You did so quickly, because you didn't want him to get sick either. "I'm done, Santi."
He didn't even turn around, nor give you time to. He simply stripped off his shirt, making you squeak in surprise. He was so cold and in such a rush, however, that he didn't notice you outright ogling him.
You'd only been dating for a few weeks, and in that time, you and Santi hadn't had sex yet. You didn't want to rush things. You wanted to go at your slow, natural paces. Jumping into bed together after only a few dates didn't seem like the best way to do that, not to you two. And since you'd only been seeing each other in the colder months of the year, you hadn't gotten to see one another in a bathing suit yet, or even shirtless, in Santi's case.
Your soft gasp of alarm made him turn around with an eyebrow arched, which only went higher as you rushed forward. He jumped when your fingertips, feather-light, brushed over a scar running down his ribcage. You yanked your hand back, scared the action had hurt.
"Shit, baby. Your hands are cold."
"Sorry," You breathed, eyes never leaving the scar. "What's this from?"
Santi hesitated. You realized it might be uncomfortable for him to talk about, and started to apologize, but... "...Bad fight. Guy pulled a blade on me and snuck up from behind." The image made you wince. Santi saw it, of course. "You sure you wanna hear about them, mi vida?"
You nodded resolutely, impressing him. "They're a part of you. They tell stories about little bits of your life. If... If you want, I wanna hear them... make them a part of me, too."
Santi stared at you for a second, expression unreadable. Then he smiled, chasing any worries you might have had away. "Okay. Sounds good." He kissed your forehead tenderly before jerking his chin at you. "You might wanna turn around; lemme change into dry clothes first."
He was changed shortly, and while you made hot chocolate and snacks in his kitchen, he threw both of your clothes in the dryer. Instead of watching a movie, you studied Santi's scars, tracing out memories and old stories carved into his body. Stories he was choosing to share with you.
The night ended with you curled up together on his couch, sleeping right where you were.
