It had been the third time that week Tyler called; his visits to your house either a result of him avoiding his father or seeking help with his wounds.

Tonight, it was both.

Tyler's arms supported his weight as he leaned against your bathroom sink, closing his eyes and letting you tend to the gashes in his skin.

His bare chest was dirty and bloodied from events Tyler never wanted to tell you about. Thinking of the frequency of his visits in the past few days, you wiped an area by his collarbone with a sigh.

You could tell he was holding something back; having wounds like his did not come from simple street fights. His excuses seemed flimsier by the second the more cuts you came across.

His eyes futtered open, and the brunette looked over your face curiously.

"What's wrong?" He asked, breath tickling your cheeks as he gently pressed his fingertips against the side of your face.