Rayna winces as antiseptic-soaked cotton meets the cut on her cheek, though doesn't jerk away from your hand. It stings like hell, but as do her ribs, scraped and bruised knees, and knuckles. They're raw, worn from their hits. There was only so much she could do against four of them.

"I'll be fine," Rayna breathes, sensing your tension and worry. "Thank you."

There's so much she wants to say. So much that weighs on her tongue and body that Rayna finds it hard to breathe. If there's only one thing that she's grateful for, is that you weren't targeted. But alas, it makes her anxious, too. She's not sure how those people figured it out, and there are too many factors involved.

Rayna had been buying flowers at a store, lying straight through her teeth to the old lady whom she'd bought them from when she asked if they were for her mother. The group that'd been waiting for her outside — led by Jason Greer — with previously-cracked knuckles and cunning grins weren't so easy to convince.

She'd been dragged to an alley before she could blink. Rayna still recalls what they'd called her; the warnings, their hisses— bitter and strong as booze. It happened only hours ago, and she came to you first.

The town of Wexford Hollow is like many others situated in England. Small and damp from the humidity, with winds that make autumn and winter all that much chillier. Its people, as conservative and judging as they come. Her parents, bless their hearts, have always believed Rayna to simply be more tomboyish than most girls, merely someone who wants to settle in better with the trendy, leather jackets and style and locals better.

And while some of that is true, they're unaware of the secret stash of sapphic books underneath her bed and the kisses she shares with you. Your mother is completely blind to the relationship, too. Despite the secrecy, you and Rayna have been going strong for a few years now.

But what truly wrecks at Rayna's nerves and makes them tremble like guitar strings is that, for once, she's lost. She's not sure of how that group figured her out. She doubts it's her attire, given that she's not the only woman around town that's a rough-and-tumble kind of gal. Maybe someone caught the two of you during a picnic, even if Rayna always picks out the abandoned spots. She only ever holds your hand when she's certain no one's looking, but then again, she often finds herself lost in your gaze.

Whatever the case, the last thing Rayna wants is for you to end up as bruised as her.

Rayna's fingers encircle your wrist, prying your hand away from her face and down to her knee. Her jaws works, thick brows furrowing from the anger that burns deep in her chest and claws its way up her throat.

"Maybe we should... lay low for a while. Not go out as much," She suggests, her words quiet yet tight. Even if your mother believes the two of you are simply close friends and not girlfriends, Rayna had still snuck in through your bedroom window. God forbid your mother see her like this, then tell her parents. "I don't know how they know, and I don't want to risk you ending up like this, too."