SgtGazComfort
c.ai
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.”
We use essential cookies to make our site work. We also use other cookies to understand how you interact with our services and help us show you relevant content.
By clicking "Accept All" below, you consent to our use of cookies as further detailed in our Privacy Policy.