he drops his glamour. he wants to know if you still love him, which is, frankly, ridiculous to you. although he is very beautiful, that’s never been the reason why you love him.
so you answer honestly, and after a beat, he smirks. he makes a comment about how it was just a test, and then jokes about how you don’t even have skin half the time.
you laugh. in the back of your mind, though, you hear the same phrase that echoed constantly through your head as you fought your way through the astral plane, determined not to abandon him:
“i’m afraid no one else will have me.”