Page 72 of Penalty Kiss
"Details."
Jamie laughs—a warm, genuine sound that makes Scott's expression soften around the edges. "I'll keep an ear out," she promises.
By the time the trucks pull away and Jamie heads home—after Scott somehow finds three excuses to give her his number—Tara and I are left standing in the smoky wreckage, surveying the damage.
Tara moves to the sink, grabbing a sponge and starting to clean up.
“I’ll do that.” The guilt twists in my gut.
“No worries.” She glances at me, and there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes.
I step closer. “I’m fine.”
“Mm-hm.” She doesn’t argue. Just keeps scrubbing like cleaning soot is just another shift at the Bistro.
“Cam, wanna talk about it.” Her voice is warm and careful, like she’s setting the door open without shoving me through it.
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, stepping closer, guilt gnawing at me. “Really. Just… I guess I was distracted.”
“Go on.” She sets the sponge down, turning to face me fully.
I look away, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe. I don’t know. I thought I was getting better, but…”
“But I’m not,” I admit, the words coming out harsher than I intended. “I’m not better, Tara. And I hate it.”
Her expression softens, and she steps closer, her hand finding mine. “PCS recovery isn’t a straight line. You don’t see it, but I do. You’re better than you were a month ago. Better than last week. Being here with you every day—I can tell. And that’s what matters.”
I want to believe her, but the guilt sits heavy in my chest. “I almost burned the house down, Tara. What if you’d been here? What if—”
“What if nothing,” she cuts in, squeezing my hand before I can spiral further. “You didn’t. End of story.”
The air leaves me in a shaky exhale, tension loosening under her touch. “You’re too good to me, Rookie.”
“Someone has to be,” she teases, her smile warming me more than any stove ever could.
We clean up in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when you’re past the small talk and into the real stuff.
"So," she says, opening windows to clear the remaining smoke. "Thai takeout?"
"Actually," I say, an idea forming. "I know exactly where we should go."
Sugar Mill Lofts welcomes us once again. I’ve had the place sitting empty since Lily set me up here for recovery. Tonight it feels less like wasted rent and more like a lifesaver.
"We don't have to stay here," she says, but I can hear the relief in her voice.
“And make you sit in that kitchen, breathing smoke? Not happening.” I shoot her a wry smile. “Besides, I’m too delicate to survive the town parading through with casseroles and pity. Hard pass.”
I dig clothes out of my duffel, trying not to think about how it feels like another failure. Another reminder I’m not the reliable protector she deserves.
"Cam." She appears in the bedroom doorway, still smoky but gorgeous. "Stop beating yourself up.”
"I'mnot—"
"You're doing that thing where you carry everyone else's problems plus your own. I can practically see the weight of it on your shoulders."
She crosses to me, takes the shirt I'm folding out of my hands, and sets it aside. Then she stays close, tilting her chin until I meet her eyes. Her hands come up, warm and steady, framing my face.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she says, thumbs brushing soot I hadn’t noticed. “I know tonight was the opposite of what you’d planned for me. But the effort? That told me more than any perfect meal ever could.”
