He looked down at his hand in both of hers, his eyes wide. It felt wrong. All wrong. She was so good, and he... he was damaged. Damaged in a way she wasn't even close to being. It felt like she shouldn't even be touching him.

The memories of his addiction, of the utter weakness he had shown then, shook him to the core, awakening self-loathing that he hadn't dealt with for a long time.

"Hate you?" The statement surprised him. It jolted him enough to make him look at her face, but then he quickly averted his eyes again. "I could never hate you. It's just..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again, making himself face the situation. "I'm clean. I've been clean for years. I swear. I'm not--I'm not going to steal or lie or hurt you to feed a habit. I'm clean." More than anything, he wanted her to not look at him like his doctor did. Like the nurses did. Like all the strangers who saw the scars did. Like he was pathetic. Like he didn't care about others.

Like he was worthless.