Chapter Fourteen – Lark
“You scared me.”
The words don’t feel like mine once they’re out in the open. They feel too exposed. Too honest. Like something I should’ve held on to a little longer before letting it land between us like this.
Holt doesn’t move, but he doesn’t brush it off. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t step back and give me the space to pretend I didn’t just say something that changes the shape of everything between us.
He just looks at me.
“You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t mean anything,” he says quietly.
My hand is still on his waist. I didn’t realize that until now. Didn’t realize I haven’t pulled it away. Didn’t realize he hasn’t moved from it either.
“It doesn’t have to mean more than it does,” I say knowing that I can’t fight what Holt’s been trying to convince me of.
Even as I say it, I know it’s not true.
He huffs out a breath. Low. Controlled.
“It already does.”
The kitchen feels smaller. The light coming in through the windows hits the counter at an angle that makes everything look sharper than it should—edges more defined, shadows deeper, like the whole room leans in to see what happens next.
I push his shirt up slightly, and he goes still when I do. Not tense. Not pulling away. Just…aware.
The gauze wraps clean around his abdomen, but there’s a faint line of red bleeding through near the edge. Not serious, but still enough to matter.
“You didn’t clean this properly,” I say.
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I had help.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
His mouth twitches.
“Bossy,” he mutters.
“Efficient,” I correct.
“Control issues.”
“Still true.”
The words echo something from earlier. From before everything shifted. That makes it worse because now they mean something different.
I move toward the sink, grabbing a clean cloth and running it under warm water, my hands steady now that they have something to do. That’s always been the easiest way to manage things; fix what’s in front of you and ignore what isn’t.
“You’re going to make a mess,” Holt says.
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know it’s not handled.”
He watches me for a second longer, then he steps closer
“You always do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Take over.”
I glance up at him.
“And you always let me.”
Something shifts in his expression.
“Not always,” he says.
I gently press the damp cloth against his skin. He inhales sharply. The reaction hits me low in my chest.
“Hold still,” I say.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am trying very hard not to react to the fact that you’re touching me.”
My hand pauses for a second.
“Then stop reacting.”
“Not an option.”
I clean the edge of the wound carefully, focusing on the task, on the way the gauze needs to be replaced, on the steady rhythm of something practical. Something safe.
Though nothing about this feels safe anymore with him this close, with the heat of him pressing into the space between us, with the memory of his mouth still sitting too clearly in mine.
“You should sit,” I say.
“I'm alright.”
“You’re not.”
He exhales, slowly, then does it anyway.
Pulls out the chair at the table and lowers himself into it with a quiet grunt that confirms everything I already know.
I grab fresh gauze and tape. This time, I kneel between his knees. I realize immediately that I’ve made a mistake. A big one. Because now there’s no space, no distance, no pretending this is anything other than exactly what it is.
My hands move carefully. Deliberately, but my awareness is everywhere. The heat of his thighs on either side of me. His hands rest on the edge of the table like he’s holding himself in place. The way his gaze doesn’t leave me. Not once.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“You’re in my space.”
“You told me to fix it.”
“I didn’t tell you to stand there.”
I glance up and meet his eyes.
“You could move.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“Could,” he agrees.
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
My pulse picks up again. Just like it always does when we’re like this—close. Too close. I press the new gauze into place and tape it down. My fingers brush his skin again, slower this time. Not by accident either. Holt’s breath shifts and mine swiftly follows.
His hand lifts. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His fingers wrap lightly around my wrist, thumb moving slightly. Enough to send a sharp ping through me that I feel everywhere.
“You’re not leaving,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“No.”
“Then stop pretending you want to.”
I swallow because I don’t, and that’s the unavoidable truth. A part I can’t ignore anymore.
My free hand finds Holt’s hip as he stands slowly. Forcing me to stand and step back just enough that we’re level again. Face-to-face. No table. No barrier. Nothing between us now.
“You keep saying this is temporary,” he says.
“It is.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re already holding on?”
My breath catches.
“I’m not,” I say.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Lark.”
My name in his mouth does something I don’t want to examine. I shake my head and try to step back. But Holt doesn’t let me.
His hand slides from my wrist to my waist. Dangerous and grounding in a way I shouldn’t need.
“You were scared,” he says.
“I was surprised.”
“You were scared.”
“I said—”
“You said the truth.”
The room narrows as the moment tightens. And this time, I don’t fight it.
I close the distance this time. Not him. Me.
My mouth finds his, and there’s no hesitation. No testing. No pretending this is anything other than what it is. He responds immediately, like he’s been waiting for me to make the first move.
The kiss deepens fast. Heat. Pressure. Need.
His hands pull me closer, one at my waist, the other bracing at my back, and I feel it everywhere—the shift in his body, the way his breath breaks against mine, the way everything between us stops pretending to be controlled.
I lean into him until no space is left. No room for second thoughts.
His mouth moves against mine with a kind of certainty that makes my head spin, makes everything else fall away until nothing is left but this moment and the way it feels to finally stop holding back.
My fingers slide into his shirt again. Move upward and across his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strength, the heat.
Everything about him is solid. Real. And I don’t want to step away from that. His grip tightens.
The kiss deepens, and I forget everything else. We don’t stop right away, which makes this different from any other time.
There’s no interruption, no forced break. And the slow, steady realization that we’re crossing into something that doesn’t have an easy way back.
When we finally pull apart, it’s not because we have to. It’s because we know what comes next if we don’t.
My forehead rests briefly against his. Our breathing, uneven.
“This changes things,” I say.
His answer comes without hesitation.
“It already did.”
Holt’s mouth is on mine again before I have the chance to think. There’s no warning. No space to prepare for it. Just heat and pressure and the sharp, sudden awareness of him everywhere all at once.
For half a second, I don’t move, then something in me gives.
My hands find his shirt from the inside, gripping it tight, pulling him closer, as if distance is suddenly unbearable. He tastes like mint and something that is just him—and it shouldn’t work, but it does. It works too well.
His hand slides to the back of my thigh and lifts me like it’s nothing, twisting us as he sets me on the counter in one smooth motion.
My breath catches when my back bumps into something solid behind me, but he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t slow. Just leans in deeper, like he’s been holding this back longer than I realized.
And maybe he has.
Days of tension snap tight between us, all those sharp looks and half-finished conversations and things we didn’t say finally finding somewhere to go.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head the way I want, and he lets me. For a second, I’m the one in control. For a second, he follows.
Then his hands move—strong, certain—sliding up my back, gathering my shirt like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.
The kiss breaks just long enough for him to drag it over my head, and the loss of his mouth is immediate. I feel it like something missing.
His eyes drop to my bare skin for a beat. Just one. But it’s enough to send heat spiraling low in my stomach. Then he’s back on me. Harder this time. Hungrier.
His palm traces up my side, rough in a way that shouldn’t feel good but absolutely does, and when his fingers curl at my jaw, guiding my head back, I let him. I let him take that control because I want to see what he does with it.
His mouth moves to my neck, slower now, deliberate. Like he’s figuring me out as he goes.
“Holt—” My voice barely makes it out before my head tips back against the cabinet.
My breath catches, not entirely for the reason it should. I should push him away. I should stop this before it turns into something I can’t take back. Instead, I tighten my grip in his hair and pull his mouth back to mine.
My hand slides down his chest, feeling the tension in his body even through the fabric, the way he reacts to my touch like it means something. Like I mean something. That realization alone is enough to shift everything.
I flick open the button of his jeans without breaking the kiss, slipping my hand beneath the waistband, and the sharp inhale he gives me is immediate. Real.
His body goes still for a second. Not pulling away. Not stopping me. Just—feeling it. Then what little control he has snaps. His hand tightens on my hip, grounding, steadying, taking back the space between us in one decisive movement.
“We’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rough now, lower than before. “If you want to stop, then you need to say so now.”
The only answer he hears is my deep breaths. I couldn’t back out if I wanted to. My body craves being touched like this. And only by him.