A/N: English isn't my mother language and this is not beta'd, so please bear with me and my mistakes. Feedback (both positive and negative, as long as it's constructive) is very much appreciated.


His finger traces the rough patch of skin on her bare back and she shivers instinctively at his burning yet gentle touch. Scooting closer to him, craving the comforting warmth of his body.

The scar tissue itches, the constant reminder of a suffocating room in a Cairo apartment. Ropes around her wrists, bruises on her naked body. Loud voices, warm blood. Silent tears rolling down her face. And a sharp knife cutting painfully into her skin every time she simply refused to answer her captors' questions.

The silence between them is charged, filled with unspoken questions that she knows he wants to ask but won't ever voice.

"Doesn't hurt anymore."

He doesn't need to ask what she means, nor does he wonder how she knows. She just does and that's why he loves her. Even though he never tells her.

He's sure she knows that, too.

"I wasn't there when it happened."

The pain in his voice is almost as unbearable as the accusation she can hear in his words.

"It's not your fault."

He drops his head to her back and kisses her skin reverently, his lips brushing ever so lightly over her scars. It makes him angry to see her perfect skin ruined. It makes him angry to see the signs and not knowing what exactly she's been through.

She never talks about what happened that fateful day. The day her cover had been blown. The day she almost died in that godforsaken Cairo apartment.

All he knows is that Ziva saved her life. But he respects her wish and never asks about the scars.

Somehow he's almost thankful for them. For she is not perfect. For she has flaws. For the scars she wears made her who she is.

And he wouldn't want her any other way.