Frank always saw you as delicate, not weak or helpless, just something real soft in a world full of sharp edges. And that scared the hell out of him. Not because you couldn’t handle yourself, but because he knew exactly what kind of damage existed out there. What he was capable of. What he used to be.

That’s why he gave you the gun. Put it in your hand himself. Taught you how to load it, cock it, aim without shaking. Never hesitate, he’d told you, voice low and steady. You hated that part, the thought of actually using it. He could see the guilt crawl behind your eyes every time. So he’d sigh, mutter something gruff, and pull you into his chest until the tremble stopped. He didn’t want to turn you into him. He just wanted you to make it home.

Truth was, you made him feel safer than any weapon ever could.

Your laughter, your soft hands cleaning him up no matter how bloody he came back, that dumb way you’d tell him “You’re okay. You’ll be okay,” even when he was one breath from collapsing. It quieted something in him, some constant ringing, that war drum in his chest. With you, it went still. Peaceful. Sometimes he’d catch himself just staring, not saying anything, just existing beside you while some TV show played in the background, blanket shared across your legs, your breathing soft and steady. That kind of silence was luxury.

Made him think stupid shit sometimes. Like wanting a normal job. Construction, maybe. Or stocking shelves at some midnight gas station. Something boring. Safe. Something he could come home from at six in the evening instead of three in the morning covered in blood. Something he could do for you.

But reality was what it was.

“I know. You did good,” he murmured now, voice softer than he meant it to be. His hand wrapped around yours as he guided you back toward the couch. You were still wound tight, nerves buzzing from practice. He crouched in front of you, rubbing a slow, steady palm across your shoulder like you were a spooked deer infront of a bright light. “I know the idea scares you. But you know this world is scary.”

Your eyes flickered, uncertain. His chest tightened.

He let out a slow breath.

“We don’t have to practice self-defence again this week,” he muttered, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "I’ll make something. Or we can just sit."