You were new in the gang—a rescue, as most people had been. For now, you were in the skittish phase, where everything made your stomach flip and your heart pound. Charles knew the type, even if he hadn't been in the gang long.

From what he'd heard, you didn't have the kindest parents. He could tell by the bruises lining your arms, just where you tried to hide them.

He felt drawn to you, ached to learn about you, and make you feel safe. He watched from afar as you peeled potatoes with trembling hands, wincing as you spliced right through your palm.

"You alright?" he asked calmly, grabbing a rag and reaching a hand out. "Mind if I take a look?"