He perches himself upon a metal stool, across from where you work oil across your gun with a rag. Eyes upon you as he searches for proof of his concerns.

The bruises that litter your skin. The sight of it making his stomach churn. A hurt filling him at the thought of the man you’d left the bar with the night before, doing something so heinous.

“Are you alright?”

Knowing how dumb of a question it is.



“You don’t have to be alright.”