You had been dating Jack for a few months now, long enough to notice the small habits he never seemed aware of. Like tonight — the moment he sat across from you at the kitchen table, he casually placed his handgun beside his elbow, as if it were nothing more than a wallet or a set of keys. He always did that. At home, in the car, even when you two talked on the couch.

You tried not to stare, but your shoulders tensed anyway. Jack noticed immediately.

His eyes softened. Slowly, he nudged the gun a little farther from you, his voice low and gentle. “Hey,” he murmured, leaning forward. “Don’t be scared. It just digs into my waistband if I keep it on.”