Page 94 of Major Penalty

“In case you get cold.”

She stares at the blanket, then at me as if I just gave her something more than fabric. And then she smiles, soft and warm, and runs her hand down my forearm. Her fingers trail over the veins, ink, and ridges of muscle.

She takes my hand, lifts it, and presses the softest kiss on top of my knuckles. “Thank you,” she whispers against my skin before she lowers my hand.

My entire body stills. No one’s ever done that to me before. She’s not trying to get anything from me. She’s just…thanking me.

She pulls back, her hand still wrapped around mine.

I take a breath, step back, and sit at the table beside her, trying to collect myself like she didn’t just light a fire under my ribs.

“Can I ask you something?” She looks at me, eyes curious, and I nod. “Why do you volunteer at the center?”

I stare into my drink, swirl it once, and take a slow sip.

“The short answer, is I want to help.”

“I gave you the long answer.” She tilts her head, not buying it. “I want one, too.”

“The long answer isn’t pretty.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“I want it anyway.”

I raise a brow at her, and she holds up her hand, extending her pinkie. I stare at it, at her tiny outstretched finger. I look back at her face.

Is she seriously—

Yep. She’s dead serious.

And fuck me…why is that the most adorable thing in the world?

“I pinkie promise it won’t make me scared or leave.”

My chest goes still. Where the fuck did she learn how to speak directly to the part of me I’ve never shown anyone? How did sheknow? I haven’t said a word about my abandonment issues. She’s looking at me like she can seeall of it, and instead of flinching, she’s offering her pinkie like a vow.

I stare at her hand for a moment, then raise mine and wrap my pinkie around hers, locking it gently.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The candlelight flickers between us, soft shadows dancing across her face as she waits, pinkie still hooked around mine. I lean back and take a breath so deep it stretches my ribs. This is the moment of truth.

Inevertalk about this, but I want her to know, to see me.

So, I start.

“I don’t know my father,” I say quietly. “Never met him. My mom…she used to be a drug addict.”

Her expression shifts. She doesn’t speak, but her hand tightens around mine.

“I was too young to understand it. I thought that was just…how moms were. I was five. And back then, it felt normal to find her passed out on the couch.”

I pause. The words feel foreign, thick in my mouth, like I’m coughing up ash.

“Sometimes, I’d cover her with a blanket, thinking she was just asleep.” My jaw clenches. “She wasn’t. She was high out of her mind.”

Across from me, Irene stares—eyes wide, lips parted.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

---