as he stretched out his hand. My fingers found familiar comfort in the weight. 

“I told you.  I will not harm you.” 

I had no idea if bullets even hurt him, but illusion was everything, and over the years my gun had become my security blanket.   

He moved to the stove and without using a pot holder, or even his shirt to protect his skin, removed the all cast iron lid and stirred the simmering contents inside with a wooden spoon. The aroma of something meaty, and delicious escaped into the room and instantly tempted me.   

I should have left. I should have used the opportuni...

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