LARK #2
His laugh is deep, real, unrestrained. “Lark, if this is what you’re into these days, I have some questions.”
I shrug, completely deadpan. “You should see the sequel.”
Boone shakes his head, still grinning, as he slides the book back into place. Then he glances over at me, more curious now. “Alright, smartass. What’s your favorite?”
“Lately, poetry.”
His brows lift, skeptical.
“I know, I know.” I wave a hand. “If you would’ve asked me in high school, I would’ve told you it sucked.”
He smirks. “Sounds about right.”
“But I don’t know,” I continue. “Something about it just…hits different now, I guess.”
Boone watches me for a second, then nods like he gets it, even if it’s not his thing. He pulls a few books off the shelf, flipping through the pages.
“Alright,” he says, holding one up. “So which one’s your favorite?”
I hesitate. There are a lot of good ones. But only a couple that I keep coming back to.
Pushing up from my seat, I cross the room and stand next to him. Close enough to feel the heat of him, but not enough to touch.
I scan the shelf, fingertips trailing over the spines, pausing when I find one of my favorites.
“This one,” I say, pulling it free.
Boone takes the book from my hands, flipping it over to read the title.
What the Living Do by Maria Giesbrecht.
He tilts his head, running a thumb over the worn edges. “This your copy, or did you steal this from the library?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s well-loved.”
He flips through a few pages, his brows knitting slightly. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why this one?”
I shift my weight, tucking my arms across my chest. “Because it’s real. It doesn’t try too hard. It’s messy and sad and beautiful and hopeful all at the same time. Feels like…life.”
Boone nods slowly, thumbing through a few more pages before shutting it. “I’ve never been much of a poetry guy.”
I smirk. “That’s because you’ve never had a good enough experience with it.”
His eyes flick to mine, full of challenge. “Oh yeah? ”
“Yeah.” I nod toward the couch. “Sit.”
His brow arches. “Bossy, bossy.”
But he does what I say, dropping onto the couch like he’s humoring me.
Boone watches me as I settle onto the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. Casual, like I’m not aware of the way his eyes track every move.
My feet land in his lap, and his brow quirks, amused.
But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t shove me off. Just rests a hand on my shins, thumb dragging absentmindedly over my skin.
I pretend not to notice.
“You’re real comfortable making demands, huh?”
I flip open the book. “I’m just trying to expand your horizons.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. “Uh-huh.”
I clear my throat, lifting the book. “Alright, Wilding. Pay attention. You might actually learn something.”
He huffs out a breath, tilting his head back against the couch. “I doubt it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Be quiet. Class is in session.”
Then, before he can say another word, I slip my ice-cold toes under his thigh.
Boone jerks like he’s been electrocuted. “Jesus, Lark!”
I bite back a snicker. “What? You’re warm.”
His glare is half-hearted at best, but his hand instinctively presses down over my ankle, trapping my foot there. Like he’s already decided to just deal with it.
I fight a grin.
Boone shakes his head, but there’s something softer in the way he leans back, more relaxed in the way he stays close.
I tap the book. “Now, hush. Let’s culture your uneducated ass.”
His chuckle is quiet, but he lets me read to him like this is just something we do.
For the next ten minutes, I read poems, and he listens.
At first, I think he’s just humoring me, indulging me the way you would a kid handing you a crayon masterpiece, nodding along, murmuring that’s nice, sweetheart while only half paying attention.
But the longer I read, the quieter he gets.
His hands, resting lazily on my knees, gradually start to drift. Not intentional, not obvious—just small movements, like his fingers are following the curve of my legs on their own.
By the time I’m finishing the next poem, his palms have found their way to my thighs, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of my sweatpants.
I swallow, keeping my voice even, refusing to let it show how much his hands on me still affect me.
How they always have.
I finish the poem, setting the book down beside me, and when I look up, his head is leaned back against the couch, but his eyes are on me.
Dark. Steady.
I clear my throat, shifting slightly, and his hands tighten—just for a second—before relaxing again.
“So?” I say, tone casual, like there isn’t something thick and tangible settling between us. “What’s your review?”
Boone presses his lips together, thinking. Then, after a beat, “Well, you got a pretty voice. So that was nice.”
I narrow my eyes. “Wow. That’s all you got out of that? Why did you even let me rope you into reading it?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I want your favorite things to be my favorite things too.”
And it hits me in the chest like he wound up and aimed for the center.
It’s such a simple sentence. Casual, tossed out like it means nothing. But it lands hard—right in that place I’ve been trying to ignore. The soft spot that still remembers what it was like to love him when things were easy.
He tilts his head slightly, gaze still locked on mine, something teasing but unmistakably heated behind it. “I also figured you wouldn’t want to hear what else I was thinking.”
My stomach flips, my pulse kicks up .
I should look away. I should roll my eyes, push him off, shove a pillow between us and remind him that we aren’t doing this.
Instead, my lips curve into a small smile.
“Well, now I’m curious,” I say, arching a brow and crossing my arms. “And since I’m the one who just spent the last few minutes enriching your mind, I think I deserve to know.”
Boone hums, dragging his fingers slightly up. “That so?”
I nod, swallowing against the heat creeping up my spine. “That’s so.”
Boone grins, and his stupid damn dimples pop out, deep and devastating.
The low light catches on the sharp cut of his jawline, the slope of his nose, the dark stubble dusting his skin. His hair is shoved back from where he raked his fingers through it earlier, a little too messy, like he’s been pulling at it without realizing.
Like maybe sitting here with me is fraying his patience just as much as it’s fraying mine.
The corner of his mouth tugs higher as he tips his head slightly, like he’s considering something. Like he’s figuring out just how much he wants to give away.
“Well,” he says, voice low, slow, dragging. “I was thinking about how I never noticed before that you do this little thing with your lips when you’re concentrating.”
I blink, heat curling low in my stomach. “What thing?”
His fingers trace a slow, lazy circle against the inside of my knee.
“The way you press them together when you’re trying not to react to something.”
His grin turns lazy, slow, like he’s enjoying this way too much. His fingers trace another idle pattern on my skin.
“I was thinking,” he says, “about how pretty you look when you’re lost in something.”
My breath hitches, barely noticeable, but Boone’s watching too closely to miss it.
His hand shifts slightly, fingertips grazing the inside of my thigh. “Was thinking about how soft your mouth looks when you read. ”
A slow exhale leaves me, but I don’t break eye contact. “And?”
His lips twitch, eyes darkening.
“And how bad I wanted to pull that book out of your hands, push you back against this couch, and taste how soft it actually is.”
Heat pools deep in my belly, a slow, insistent ache that I try to ignore. His hand stays where it is, firm but unmoving, waiting.
I swallow hard, my voice steady, even if my pulse isn’t. “That’s quite the review.”
“You think so?” His voice is low, edged with something that sends my pulse into a freefall. “’Cause I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”
My breath hitches before I can stop it. I know that look. Know that tone. It’s the one he used to get when he was about to ruin me. The tension between us stretches thin, ready to snap.
Then it does.
His arm hooks around my waist in one swift, practiced movement, and suddenly, I’m not sitting next to him anymore.
I squeak, hands flying to his shoulders as he pulls me into his lap, my legs straddling his waist.
“Boone,” I gasp, half shocked, half something else entirely.
He laughs, low and deep in his chest, like he’s enjoying every second of my reaction.
“Yeah, honey?” His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing just enough to remind me that even though he’s in control of this moment, if I wanted to move away, I could.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach up and let my finger trace the bridge of his nose, slow and featherlight. His breathing shifts—deeper, steadier—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me with that heavy-lidded stare like he’s memorizing the way this feels.
My touch drifts higher, brushing along the crease in his brow that didn’t used to be there. Down across the edge of his cheekbone, where a faint scar now lives—one I’ve never seen before. I pause there for a second, my finger skimming over it like I can smooth it away .
Then I trail lower, past the stubble along his jaw, down to the cleft of his chin.
My finger rests there the way it used to. Back when we were teenagers and I’d lie on the floor of his bedroom with my head on his chest, tracing that same spot and calling it my favorite place in the whole world. I meant it. I still do.
Boone swallows, his throat working around the silence. His eyes find mine, and stay there, unflinching. There’s no hesitation in them. No apology. Just a quiet sort of intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
He looks at me like he remembers every version of this moment. Every time I’ve touched him there before. Every night we built something wordless between us and didn’t realize how much it mattered until we broke it.
“Boone…”
He shakes his head once, sharp. “No.”