You were sat on your bed in the Jolly Roger holding your head in your hands, not caring about the tears streaming down your face. The door opened and your fiancé came and sat next to you, quickly holding onto your hand.

"Y/N, what's wrong? Are you okay, love?" He asked softly.

"I'm fine," You muttered not even trying to hide the crying.

"I know that isn't true. Please talk to me. I can't help if you don't tell me," He smiled.

He rested two fingers under your chin, to lift it up so you were looking at him. A weak smile crept on your lips. He always made you smile no matter how bad you were feeling.

"Why did you propose to me?" You whispered.

"Wait. You are upset because you don't want to get married?"

Killian looked sad, sadder than you had ever seen him before. He had only proposed two days ago, and honestly it had made you happier than you had ever been, but instantly doubt and fear swept over you and nerves took over.

"No. That is not what I meant Killian. I love you dearly, and I want to marry you, but I don't know why you would want to marry me."

His facial features contorted into a quizzical expression, before a soft smile fell to his mouth, as he leaned in to kiss you lightly.

"My love. Why would I not want to marry you?" He laughed softly.

"Don't get me started."

"No tell me. Why would you think I don't love you?"

You let out a sigh standing up and beginning the pace the room, running your hands through your hair.

"Look at me. I am short, no one wants to have to bend at a ninety degree angle to kiss someone. I'm nearly as wide as I am tall, not that that is very hard seen as I'm about the equivalent height of a hobbit. My forehead is roughly three quarters of my face. And the rest of it is covered in horridly pale skin and freckles. I have the red head genes from my Father without the red hair. I look like a mess. My ears stick out too much; my eyes barely open; I have horrid glasses that just add to the stereotype. I am a stereotype. The poor brunette white girl, who can't stand for more than ten minutes without falling over, likes comic books, and indie music. My style is hardly appealing I wear a scarf and hoodie on the hottest days of the year. My hair is too short and too dark, it just puffs up and looks like a complete mess. I have a weak ankle that makes me limp, I have a lisp most of the time, and I never wear makeup. I'm not funny or nice, or even remotely intelligent. What part of that is appealing? Let alone my bloody insecurities which this barely touches on," You practically exclaimed.

Killian seemed slightly taken aback for a moment, before he stood up and cradled your cheeks in his hands, leaning in to kiss you and stop you from continuing.

"Calm down Y/N/N. You are beautiful. You will never be a model. Firstly you can't walk in heels but you certainly don't look like a model. And that isn't a bad thing. If I wanted to be with a model I'd be with Ruby or the like. But I don't love her, I love you. I love to be needed to get things off of high shelves for you, to be here to help you if you ever need it, including making sure you know you are beautiful. You don't need makeup and I don't care about your forehead, or your freckles, I love them all. And not all stereotypes are bad. Even though I have no idea what you are talking about most of the time I like to hear you talk about superheroes and music I've never heard of. Your voice is beautiful, your walking is beautiful, and your clothes are beautiful, you are beautiful Y/N. Inside and out. There isn't one thing about you, which I can't see as beautiful and perfect. I love you. I love you how you are, for who you are," He smiled.

Another tear fell down your cheek, but this time not because you were sad.

"How can you be so perfect?" You smiled softly.

"Because you bring out the best in me."

~*~

Written by Charlotte.