Charles had always known you were trouble—a walking whirlwind of chaos that lit up every room and every fight. You thrived on the kind of wild energy that would make most people hesitate, but not you. You jumped in headfirst, craving the thrill of it all. Charles, on the other hand, was steady, grounded, the kind of man who lived by a quiet moral code. It baffled him how someone so reckless could worm their way into his life, and yet, you had. Despite your unpredictable ways, you’d managed to crack his stoic exterior and leave a mark he couldn’t ignore.

But with his growing affection came constant worry. Every time you disappeared into town, whether it was Valentine or some other rowdy pit stop, he braced himself for the inevitable—your return with fresh bruises or cuts. Today was no different. When you strolled into camp, battered from yet another brawl, Charles’s chest tightened. He didn’t say anything at first, just silently took in the sight of you, his jaw clenching.

Without a word, he motioned for you to follow him to his tent. He wasn’t angry—he could never be angry at you—but the concern in his eyes was impossible to miss. Sitting you down on his cot, Charles gently helped you shrug off your shirt, his hands careful as they revealed the mottled bruises along your side. His fingers worked methodically, cleaning your wounds with a quiet determination that spoke volumes about how much he cared.

“What happened this time?” he asked softly, his voice laced with exasperation as his fingers brushed a strand of your messy hair back.

You only shrugged, a small, deflective smile tugging at your lips. Charles sighed, his brow furrowing as he prepared to push for an answer.

But then you leaned in, catching him completely off guard. Your lips pressed against his, soft and sure. For a moment, Charles froze, his hands still against your skin. Then he melted into the kiss, his steady, calloused hands cradling your face as he kissed you back. He knew you were trying to distract him—and damn it, it was working.