Page 99 of Wings
"Soon." The word came out softer than intended. Four months of building something real, something that belonged just to us. But yeah, soon. The walls I'd built to protect myself didn't need to be so high anymore.
We spent another twenty minutes refining the program details. Nina had the medical expertise, but I understood the community—where people gathered, which churches ran food banks, what hours workers could actually visit. The ER had taught me to stop bleeding. The clinic was teaching me to prevent it.
"Same time Friday, then." Nina stood, stretching. "And Kiara? This program—it's going to save lives. You know that, right?"
My throat went tight. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
She squeezed my shoulder and headed for her office, leaving me alone with the butterflies and the quiet hum of medical equipment winding down for the day. I pulled out my phone, thumb already finding our message thread.
Three texts from Lena: "Wine night Friday is ON." "Bring the good crackers." "The ones that don't taste like cardboard."
I typed back quickly: "The bougie ones from Whole Foods?" Her response was immediate—three fire emojis and "Yessss queen."
Then Gabe's message, sent an hour ago. Just a peach emoji and a fire emoji. No words needed. Four months in, and he could still make me blush like a teenager.
"Bread better not burn this time," I texted back, biting my lip to suppress a grin.
His response came before I'd even locked my phone: "Bread's perfect. You're the one who's gonna burn ??"
Jesus. The man had no shame. I loved it.
I gathered my things—stethoscope into my bag, badge unclipped from the rainbow lanyard one of my pediatric patients had made me. The clinic fell quiet as I made my rounds,checking locks, turning off lights, handing over to the overnight staff. The butterflies disappeared into darkness, but I knew they'd be there tomorrow, bright and waiting.
Outside, East Ironridge stretched before me in the late afternoon light. Not the prettiest part of town—graffiti on most surfaces, windows barred against problems that came with poverty. But there was life here too. Mrs. Sanchez sweeping her bodega steps, calling out to her grandson. The food truck on the corner serving tamales that could make you weep. Community in the spaces between struggle.
The corner shop bell chimed as I entered, AC hitting like a blessing after the street heat. I grabbed strawberries—the good ones, not too soft—and a bottle of that fancy sparkling water Gabe pretended he didn't love. The owner grinned as I approached the counter.
"Hot date tonight?"
"Something like that." I couldn't fight the smile.
The three-block walk to our apartment felt shorter every day. Past the Check Plus where people cashed paychecks for predatory fees. Past the barbershop where old men played dominoes on milk crates. Past the empty lot where someone had planted sunflowers in defiance of the concrete.
Marked Kings announced itself in burgundy and black, gothic lettering that Lena had designed herself. The tattoo shop occupied the ground floor of the converted factory building, all exposed brick and industrial fixtures turned artistic. I could hear the buzz of her machine through the door—working late, as usual.
The side entrance led to the apartments above. My key slid in smooth, no more fighting with sticky locks or wondering who might be waiting. Just home. The stairwell smelled like lemon balm from the herbs Lena grew on the landing, mixing with the sharp tang of tattoo antiseptic.
Our door—apartment 2B—had a small butterfly sticker in the corner. Gabe had put it there our first week, said he wanted me to know I was home before I even opened the door. Such a small thing. It destroyed me every time I saw it.
I turned the key, anticipation humming under my skin. Garlic and basil hit first, then the low thrum of music. Nine Inch Nails, which meant he was in the mood.
Good. So was I.
He didn't hear me come in. The music covered the sound of my key, my footsteps, the soft thud of my bag hitting the floor. So I got to watch him for a moment—Gabe in his element, barefoot and shirtless, stirring vodka sauce with the focused intensity he brought to everything.
The kitchen had become his domain in the months since we'd properly moved in together. Not just crashing at the shared apartment anymore, but building something real in this space above Lena's shop. He'd arranged everything with military precision—spices alphabetized, knives hung on magnetic strips, that ridiculous dish towel collection I'd started as a joke now folded neat in the drawer.
But it was his body that held my attention. Four months of good food and better sleep had filled him out, turned him from sharp-edged survivor to something more solid. Muscle curved over his shoulders, flexed along his back as he reached for the oregano. Dark jeans hung low on his hips, revealing that V that made my mouth water more than any pasta could.
A thin sheen of sweat glossed his skin. From the heat of cooking or just him running hot like always, I couldn't tell. Didn't care. Just wanted to taste it.
I padded across the floor, proud that I'd learned to move quiet enough to surprise him. His prosthetic—the everyday one, not the running blade—gleamed dull silver where it met skin.Another part of him I'd learned to love, to incorporate into our rhythm.
My lips found that spot just beneath his ear, where his pulse jumped at the contact. He didn't startle—Gabe never startled anymore, too much control for that—but his body shifted, angling to welcome me against him.
"Welcome home, baby girl." His voice rumbled through his chest into mine. One hand stayed on the spoon, keeping the sauce from burning, while the other found my hip and squeezed. Not gentle. Never gentle anymore, not when he knew I could take it.
"Smells good," I murmured against his skin, tasting salt and Gabe and home.
