Page 15 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

The weight of that admission hung between us. I focused on my doodle, adding more details to distract from the ache in my chest. Before I realized it, I'd drawn tiny wings next to his name on the volunteer schedule. Not butterflies—actual wings, detailed and careful.

If he noticed, he didn't comment. Just slid another list my way, our fingers brushing again in the exchange.

"Tell me about the medical stuff," he said, offering an escape from the emotional intensity. "What do we lose most? What's hardest to source?"

Grateful for the redirect, I launched into explaining antibiotic resistance, shelf lives, the difference between what expired legally versus what actually lost potency.

He listened with the same focused attention he gave his spreadsheets, asking smart questions, making notes in margins I'd already decorated with tiny rainbows.

"You're good at this," I said, watching him reorganize the chaos into something manageable. "Making sense of complicated things."

"Had to learn. In the field, good organization meant the difference between life and death.

Knowing where your medical supplies were, how much you had, what you could stretch in an emergency.

" He paused, a shadow crossing his face.

"Lost too many people to preventable things. Don't want that happening here."

The weight of his experience, his losses, settled over the table like a blanket. I wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, but didn't know if I had the right. Instead, I added another unicorn to his notepad, this one with a tiny crown.

"For what it's worth," I said softly, "your system's going to save lives. The organization, the tracking—it'll make everything more efficient. Safer."

He looked at me then, really looked, and something passed between us. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of shared purpose. His hand moved across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough I could feel the warmth.

"Thank you," he said simply. "For helping. For . . ." He gestured vaguely at the decorated margins. "For making it less clinical."

I smiled, the first real smile I'd felt in days. "Anytime you need unicorns, I'm your girl."

The words hung in the air, heavier than I'd intended. His fingers twitched like he wanted to close that last inch between us, but he didn't. Just smiled back, soft and a little sad, and returned to his spreadsheet.

The atmosphere shattered like spun sugar when Mia appeared in the archway.

She wore unicorn pajamas—not the ironic kind adults bought as jokes, but soft purple ones with a hood that had a horn and ears.

Her feet were in fuzzy slippers that looked like clouds.

And she was skipping. Actually skipping.

"Kiara! Mandy and I are having hot chocolate with marshmallows. Wanna come?" She bounced on her toes, hands clasped in front of her like an excited child.

Every muscle in my body locked.

"I . . . I should probably . . ." Words failed me completely.

But Mia had already grabbed my hand, her fingers warm and slightly sticky like she'd been eating candy. "Come on! Mandy makes the best hot chocolate. She uses real chocolate, not powder, and she has the tiny marshmallows and the big ones."

I found myself pulled from the booth, Gabe's amused chuckle following us. My hand in Mia's felt strange—when was the last time someone had held my hand just to hold it? Not romantic, not possessive, just the simple connection of friendship.

The kitchen blazed with light after the dimmer main room. Mandy stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled like heaven. She'd changed into a onesie—stars and moons against navy fabric—her red hair in pigtails tied with ribbons.

"Ki's joining us!" Mia announced, pulling me to the small table. "Is there enough chocolate?"

"Always enough chocolate," Mandy assured her, then looked at me with those sharp green eyes that seemed less sharp now, softer somehow. "How do you like your hot chocolate? Extra chocolate? Whipped cream? Cinnamon?"

"I—" My voice cracked. They were both so comfortable, so easy in their little space. No shame, no fear, no constantly checking over their shoulders for judgment or danger.

"Oh! Gabe!" Mia spotted him in the doorway. "You want some too?"

He'd followed us, probably to make sure I was okay. The prosthetic was back on, his gait evening out as he entered the kitchen. "If there's enough."

"Mandy always makes extra," Mia confided to me in a stage whisper. "She says it's because Thor drinks so much, but really I think she just likes taking care of people."

Mandy blushed but didn't deny it, pouring chocolate into mugs with careful precision. Each mug was different—Mia's had unicorns (of course), Mandy's had stars, mine had butterflies I tried not to read too much into, and Gabe's was plain black with a chip on the handle.

"Marshmallows?" Mandy asked, holding up two bags.

"Both!" Mia said immediately. "The big ones float better but the little ones taste better in the first sip."

The logic of it, delivered with such certainty, made me smile despite myself. This was what I'd missed, what I'd craved—the ability to care about marshmallow sizes without apology.

Gabe settled next to me at the small table, close enough our knees touched.

The contact grounded me as conversation flowed around us.

Favorite Disney movies—Mia loved Tangled, Mandy preferred Moana.

Best crayons—definitely the 64-pack with the sharpener built in.

Whether unicorns or dragons were cooler—a debate that got surprisingly heated.

"What about you, Kiara?" Mia asked suddenly. "Unicorns or dragons?"

"Um, both?" I offered weakly. "Maybe dragon-unicorns? Dragicorns?"

"Ooh!" Mia bounced in her seat. "With sparkly scales and healing powers!"

"And they breathe rainbow fire," Mandy added, getting into it.

"That only burns bad people," I found myself saying. "Good people just feel warm."

"Yes!" Mia clapped. "Perfect! We should draw some later. Do you like to color?"

The question hung innocent and loaded. Beside me, Gabe shifted slightly, his knee pressing more firmly against mine. Silent support.

"Sometimes," I admitted carefully.

"What's your favorite stuffie?" Mia continued, oblivious to my internal crisis. "Mine's Mr. Patches—he's a bunny Duke won for me at the fair. Mandy has a whole collection, but her favorite is—"

"Classified information," Mandy interrupted with mock seriousness.

"It's a turtle," Mia stage-whispered. "Named Shelly. She talks to him when she thinks no one's listening."

"Betrayal!" Mandy gasped, but she was smiling.

They were so easy with each other, so safe in their vulnerability. When Mia asked about my favorite stuffie, the words almost escaped. Mr. Butterscotch.

"I don't . . . I mean, I used to . . ." The words tangled, tripped, fell flat.

Mia's expression softened. She reached across the table, patting my hand with sticky fingers. "It's okay. I was scared at first too. But it's safe here. Duke promises, and Duke never breaks promises."

The casual faith in that statement made my eyes burn.

"Thor was the same with me," Mandy added quietly. "Took weeks before I could be little around him. Kept waiting for him to laugh or get angry or . . ." She trailed off, but we all heard the unspoken endings. "But he never did. Just kept showing up, being patient, making space for all of me."

"Even the parts that like stuffies and coloring and bedtime stories," Mia added firmly. "Because those parts matter too."

My throat closed completely. Gabe's hand found my knee under the table, warm and steady. Not pushing, not demanding, just there.

We finished our hot chocolate in companionable quiet, the conversation drifting to safer topics—TV shows, books, whether the clubhouse needed a pet. ("A dragicorn!" Mia suggested, making us all laugh.)

When we dispersed, Gabe walked me back to my room. The hallway felt smaller with him beside me, more intimate. At my door, I turned, words tumbling out before I could stop them.

"How do they just . . . trust like that? After everything?"

His expression was infinitely gentle in the dim light. "They learned they were worth protecting. That being little doesn't make them less."

"But what if—" I stopped, swallowed. "What if you've been broken too long? What if those parts are too damaged to—"

"Hey." He stepped closer, not touching but near enough I could feel his warmth. "You're not broken, Ki. Hurt, yeah. Scared, definitely. But not broken."

The tears came then, silent but unstoppable. He stood there, patient as a mountain, while I fought them back.

"It's late," I finally managed. "I should—"

"Yeah."

It felt like he wanted to say more. But he didn’t.

The first crack of thunder yanked me from sleep like a fist to the gut. My body knew before my mind caught up—muscles tensing, breath catching, that sick roll of dread in my stomach that meant storm. That meant danger. That meant hiding.

Lightning flashed, illuminating my unfamiliar room in stark white before plunging it back to black. The walls felt too thin, too close. Not enough barriers between me and the sound that crawled under my skin like memory.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

Thunder crashed, rattling the windows. My whole body flinched, arms wrapping around my knees as I curled into the smallest ball possible.

Four days at the clubhouse and I'd started to feel safe.

Four days of watching littles be cherished, of organizing medical supplies with Gabe, of almost believing I could have something different.

But storms always brought me back.

Back to Alex's apartment, the walls shaking with bass from his speakers and the thunder outside. He always got worse during storms. Like the electricity in the air fed something dark in him, made him feel powerful. Invincible.

"Where the fuck is my stash, Ki?" His voice, slurred with whatever cocktail he'd consumed, louder than the thunder.