You can tell something is wrong the moment you step into the station.

Not because of raised voices or shattered glass, no, it’s quieter than that. Worse than that. It’s the way the constables avoid looking at him. The way Brackenreid’s office door is shut just a little too firmly. The way the air feels… heavy.

And then you see him.

Watts is seated at his desk, but he isn’t working. His shoulders are tense, drawn inward, as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. One gloved hand is clenched tightly around a pencil, the wood already splintered where his grip has cracked it. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

There’s a faint bruise at his temple.

Poorly concealed.

Deliberately.

When he finally looks up and sees you, something flickers in his eyes — relief, quickly buried under a practiced, brittle composure.

“Oh. You’re here,” he says lightly. Too lightly. “How… fortuitous.”

But his voice is strained. Thinner than usual. There’s an exhaustion there that goes far deeper than a long day’s work.

You notice the way he doesn’t quite meet your gaze. The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m perfectly well, of course,” he continues, already defensive, already lying. “Just a… minor disagreement. Occupational hazards and all that.”

He stands, but he sways, only slightly, catching himself on the edge of the desk before you can step forward.

For just a second, his carefully constructed walls crack.

“I can handle it,” he says, softer now. Quieter. “I always do.”

But the truth is written all over him.

He looks like someone who has been carrying too much for too long. Someone who has learned that asking for help only makes things more complicated. Someone who is used to being hurt in ways that don’t leave visible scars, and in ways that do.

You can tell he doesn’t expect you to intervene.

Doesn’t expect you to care.

Doesn’t expect you to stay.

“There’s really no need for concern,” he adds quickly, almost pleading. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

Yet his hands are trembling now. Ever so slightly.

And when you step closer, lowering your voice, asking what really happened, his breath catches.

Just for a moment.

“…It’s nothing,” he insists. But his eyes betray him. There’s fear there. And shame. And something dangerously close to hope.

Hope that you won’t walk away.

Hope that you’ll see through the bravado.

Hope that, maybe this time, he won’t have to face it alone.