“It’s my good looks and winning smile.” I flash her a toothy grin, and she blushes. I expected her to laugh. The jagged scar on the side of my face is still pretty jarring, even for me. When I catch my own reflection in the mirror sometimes, I have to do a double-take. “Come on. It was a joke. I’m more beast than beauty.”

She laughs. “I’m okay being the pretty one standing next to you.”

“I’m here to make you look good, boo.” I wink at her.

“Boo? What the heck?” she says playfully.

“Shawty?” I try, thinking maybe she’ll like that one better.

“Try again,” she retorts, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

“If we’re gonna be hanging out, you’ve gotta have a nickname. I’m a Marine. Everyone has a nickname.”

“What’s yours?”

“Cupcake.”

She bursts out laughing, and I stand there and wait on it to pass. I’ve gotten used to getting shit about it, but mostly it’s from guys. I wait for her to catch her breath and then put my hands on my hips impatiently.

“You’re not serious,” she says.

I reach down to the hem of my T-shirt and pull it up to my chest. On my ribcage is a cupcake tattoo, complete with sprinkles.

The smile falls from her lips, and her eyes rake over the skin I’ve exposed. Suddenly I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Being around guys my whole life, I have zero problems with nudity. I could walk around a crowded room in broad daylight and not give two fucks. But after a second I wonder if I went too far. I’ve never had a younger sister, so I don’t know what’s beyond appropriate. I guess as long as she seems cool with playing around, what’s the harm?

I lower my shirt, and she swallows. Then she shakes her head.

“Okay. I need the story,” she mutters after clearing her throat.

“All right,” I say as we walk to the common room of the clinic. There are beanbag chairs and places to hang out if anyone is looking for some down-time and someone to talk to. We take a seat near the windows, and the sun shines across Maggie’s blonde hair. For a second I simply look at her and appreciate how beautiful she is.

“Story. Spill it,” she orders, and nudges me with her foot.

“So I went to military school in high school. But I was really smart and skipped a grade, and I graduated early. Then I went to a military college, and I skipped another. So imagine being a senior in college at nineteen, with all these other hard-ass guys, twenty-one or older.”

“Okay,” she says, waiting for the explanation.

“They always gave me so much shit. I mean, they gave everyone shit, but I took the brunt of it. It was my birthday, and they decided to make a joke of it and ordered me a hundred pink sprinkle cupcakes and had them delivered to the front office. They thought I’d get in trouble for having them, or grab a demerit for making a scene.”

“Just for having someone deliver cupcakes to you?” she asks.

“It’s a military school. The best thing you can do is blend in. And a delivery like that is against the rules. Breaking the rules sucks, and nobody wanted that kind of punishment.” I laugh, thinking back to it. “But what they didn’t count on was my commanding officer calling me to his office.”

“I don’t understand.” Confusion is clear on her face.

“He was a hard, old man with a temper that would rival Yosemite Sam. But for some reason he took a shine to me. He said he knew I didn’t have any family who would have sent them and that the guys did this to get me in trouble. But he couldn’t prove who it was who did it. So he said I could keep them. That kind of dessert would normally be considered contraband. It was like giving a hundred cartons of cigarettes to an inmate. I was instantly in charge.”

“So what did you do with them?”

“I gave them out to the right people, and nobody fucked with me after that. I took on the name Cupcake, but I owned it,” I say, pointing to the spot on my side where the tattoo is. “I think the guys knew that if my commanding officer was giving me the nod, I wasn’t to be fucked with. And people respond to leadership.”

“Cupcake.” She says the same and smiles. “I like it.”

“So now we just need one for you, princess.” She turns her nose up at that one.

“My dad calls me ‘bug.’ Don’t know where it came from, but it stuck.”

“Nah. That one’s his. I want one of my own for you.” She seems to like the idea of that, if her smile is any indication. “We’ll hang out some more and see what pops up, firecracker.”

She rolls her eyes. “Definitely not.”

We spend the afternoon hanging out, and Maggie does some volunteering when one of the clinic physicians needs an extra set of hands. I work with a new patient and talk about his goals and what his home life is like. We decide to set time up every day so that we can talk and he can check in. It’s all part of the process, and I’m happy that I can be a part of it in some way.

After we leave, I drive us back home, and Maggie heads straight into the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner, and can I help?” I ask, following her.

“I’m making chicken, and sure,” she responds as she pulls stuff out of the fridge and hands me vegetables to chop. “It’s movie night, too, by the way. Major will be home in about an hour, and we’ll have dinner and hang out.”