Chris tended to get a lot of migraines. Being right next to hundreds of gunshots weekly did that to you. But sometimes just dealing with his coworkers did the same thing.

He had one tonight, after work. He went to your place instead of his, knowing by morning, he'd probably need your help. Or if he needed to go to the hospital.

He stumbled through your front door and went straight to your bed, where you laid. He laid next to you, wrapping an arm around you and burying his face into your back. He needed the darkness terribly.