He flashes back to the first time she told him about getting shot. They'd just met, and he'd asked a stupid question, and he'd regretted it afterward.

Her guns and her scars are part of her, and he understands this better these days. He's gotten used to the guns; he's never minded the scars when his fingers brush over them. It's just that sometimes he forgets why they're there, how they got there.

"I know, I remember," he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I ain't sayin' that you can't go and do whatever you do out there. I ain't gonna tell you what to do. I promised you that, and I think so far I've done a pretty good job. So. Yeah. I'm still gonna-- y'know-- worry about you and whatever."

Reaching out an arm, his hand lands on her hip.

"Those guys, though. You trust 'em?"