Page 70 of Penalty Kiss
“Then let’s make them collide,” I whisper.
Chapter 12
From Ashes to Us
Cam
“What the hell?!”
The smoke alarm continues to shriek, like a banshee on a bender, and I’m standing in a haze of acrid gray, clutching a spatula like I’m about to duel the smoke itself.
Thegamjatang—what was supposed to be rich, marrow-deep Korean comfort food—now looks like something hell’s cafeteria rejected.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene—culinary homicide.
When Tara walks in, I brace for anger. Maybe disappointment. At best, a smirk. What I don’t brace for is the sound that breaks out of her—pure, belly-deep laughter. She takes one look at me, soot-smudged and brandishing utensils like weapons, and doubles over, giggles spilling unrestrained.
It’s real. The kind of laugh that slips past her armor and feels like sunlight I didn’t realize I needed.
“Well,” she manages between gasps, “this is not what I expected to come home to.”
Home.That word from her lips… it hits different.
“I can explain,” I start, though I’ve got no idea how to justify leaving a perfectly good stew unsupervised while I went jogging on a concussed brain.
“Please do.” She’s grinning, and even through the smoke, she’s the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.
The truth? I thought cooking might shake the shadow off her. That scarf. That text. The way her whole body tensed when she saw it—made me want to bulldoze the world for her. But since I’m not cleared for demolition—or hockey fights—I went domestic instead.
Started a fancy comfort stew, cleaned out the fridge, even hung photos—three of her with friends and one of us I snuck in—laser-leveled like proof we belonged. Just… something that feels like normalcy. Something safe.
And then I went and forgot the damn stew. Great job, Wilder. Almost burned down the one sanctuary she actually breathes in.
“Okay, so—Vicky takes you shopping, I get domestic inspiration. Thought I’d surprise you withgamjatang. Pork neck bones, potatoes, perilla—my Koreanand Danishancestors would’ve given me a standing ovation.” I wave the spatula, ash falling like confetti at a loser’s parade.
“And?”
“And it was perfect. Three hours of babying, tasting, adjusting—it was on its way to Michelin-star magic. While it simmered, I cleaned out the fridge, hung some pictures.” I rake a hand through my hair, probably smearing soot worse. “Then I figured, hey, quick run before Tara returns from her retail therapy.”
Her eyes soften as it clicks. “You forgot about the stew.”
I groan. “Swore I turned the stove off. Apparently I didn’t. Came back from my run to find my audition reel forHell’s Kitchen: Concussion Special.”
She steps closer, brushing soot from my cheek with the gentlest touch. Grounding.
“The important thing is you’re okay,” she says.
“The important thing is I nearly burned down your house.” I catch her hand, press it to my face, the guilt sharp. “Some protector I am—can’t even trust myself not to torch the place.”
“Cam.” Her voice has that quiet authority she uses when I spiral. “Accidents happen. Even to people without brain injuries.”
Before I can argue, sirens slice the air.
Her brows lift. “You called the fire department.”
“I didn’t call anyone. I just got here—busy putting the damn fire out.”
Red lights flicker through the smoke-hazed window. Trucks. Sirens cut as they park out front.
