Chapter Twelve – Holt
I shouldn’t have said that. The second the words leave my mouth, I know it. Not because they aren’t true, but because there’s no walking them back once they’re out there, sitting between us in the middle of my kitchen like something alive.
The house feels too small all of a sudden, like the walls have shifted closer without warning, pressing everything inward until no space is left to pretend this is anything other than what it is.
Her fingers tighten around the dish towel in her hands.
“You’re not very good at that,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Something that sounds a lot like she’s standing on the edge of the same thing I am and doesn’t trust herself not to step forward.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
Silence stretches. Outside, I hear the low hum of wind moving through the trees, the distant creak of the barn doors shifting on their hinges, and Rook pacing the back porch like he’s trying to decide whether he belongs out there or in here.
Inside everything is focused on her. On the way she’s looking at me now like she’s aware of my every movement. Because awareness means choice. And I don’t think either of us is making good ones tonight.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she says.
I take a step closer.
“Why?” I ask.
Her breath catches. The gold flecks in her brown eyes ignite.
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
She shakes her head once. Slowly. As if she’s trying to clear something that won’t break free.
“This is temporary,” she says.
The word hits like a warning.
“Everything about this is temporary.”
I’m close enough to see the faint line of tension along her jaw, the way her pulse jumps at her throat, the way her eyes flick down for just a second before coming back to mine.
“That doesn’t make it less real,” I say.
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Her lips part.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
I almost smile.
Because she’s right.
“No,” I say quietly. “But I get to decide what I do about it.”
“And what exactly are you doing?”
She asks a question she already knows the answer to. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll say it out loud.
I reach for her. Giving her every chance to step back. To stop this. When she doesn’t, my hand settles at her waist. Her body reacts instantly, like it remembers me just as clearly as I remember her.
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
Her fingers curl into my shirt again.
“This is a mistake,” she says.
Her voice is quieter now, less certain, but all it does is fuel the fire.
“Probably.”
“You don’t sound concerned.”
“I’m not.”
That does it. Whatever line we’ve been pretending to hold snaps. My mouth finds hers without hesitation, the distance between us disappearing in a way that feels inevitable now, like we’ve already crossed this line once, and there’s no point pretending we don’t know where it leads.
She responds immediately. No pause. No resistance. Her grip tightens in my shirt, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens fast, heat sliding through it in a way that’s sharper than before, less restrained.
I feel it everywhere. The way she presses into me. The way her breath breaks against my mouth. The way my hand shifts at her waist, fingers tightening, pulling her fully against me like I don’t trust anything less than that.
It’s different from before. This is want. Clear and undeniable.
Her other hand slides up, catching at my shoulder, and the contact sends something straight through my chest that makes me lose whatever control I had left.
I deepen the kiss. She meets me there, and at that moment, nothing else exists.
I don’t even care about the fact that this is going to complicate everything we’ve been trying to keep simple.
All I can focus on is her and the way she fits against me like this is something we’ve done before, even though we haven’t. Not like this.
My hand slides slightly along her side. It’s just a hint of movement, but it’s enough to feel the shift in her breath. Enough to know exactly how close we are to crossing into something neither of us will be able to take back.
She makes a small sound against my mouth. That’s the edge where this stops being something we can pretend is just tension.
Just as my grip tightens and my mouth shifts, she pulls back. The break is abrupt, as if she’s physically separating herself before the rest of her can catch up.
I use that moment to take her in. Her breath is uneven, eyes wide.
“This—” She starts, then stops.
I don’t move. If I do, I’m not sure I’d stop.
“That’s not—” She tries again.
I drag a hand back through my hair, forcing space between us before I lose the ability to choose it.
“Yeah,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes darting across mine, like she’s waiting for me to fix it. Explain it. Undo it. Except I can’t, even if I wanted to.
“You don’t get to act like that didn’t just happen,” I add.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to understand what it means.”
The honesty in that hits harder than anything else tonight.
“It means we stop pretending,” I say.
Her jaw tightens.
“That’s not helpful. Plus, we’ve only known each other for a few days. It’s too fast.”
“It’s the truth, and I’m a believer in things happening for a reason.”
She turns away, diving a hand through her hair. The distance between us feels wrong now. Completely opposite to the rightness of having her in my arms.
“I can’t do this if it’s going to turn into something that distracts from why I’m here,” she says.
I step back another inch, giving her space even though every part of me wants to take it right back.
“You think this is a distraction,” I say.
“I think it could be.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
Silence settles again. But it’s different this time. Heavier.
Rook scratches at the door like he’s done waiting for us to figure this out.
Lark exhales sharply.
“I need air,” she says.
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just moves past me, pulling the back door open and stepping out into the night. I don’t even give it a second thought before I follow.
The air outside is cooler. The sky stretches wide above us, stars just starting to break through the fading light. My barn stands a short distance away, one light on inside, casting a soft glow through the open doors.
Lark walks straight for it, and I let her go ahead. Give her space. Until she stops just inside the barn doors.
The smell hits immediately—hay, earth, something warm and living that settles deeper than anything inside the house.
A soft sound comes from the far stall.
A cat, one of the many barn cats on the property. Lark notices immediately.
I notice her expression shift and soften.
She steps closer, careful, slow, like she’s approaching something fragile.
“That’s Tabby,” I say from behind her.
“She’s small.”
“She’s new.”
The cat nudges forward, curious, and Lark crouches without thinking, her hand extending slowly until Tabby presses her nose into her palm.
The sight of her hits somewhere low and sharp in my chest, stealing the air from my lungs for half a second. This—this is who she is beneath all the walls. Soft in a way she doesn’t let people see. “She trusts you,” I say.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Animals know.”
Lark glances back at me with a steadier gaze now. Something less frantic.
“That sounds like something your mother would say.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “It is.”
A small smile pulls at her mouth, then fades.
“You can’t do that again,” she says.
I don’t pretend I don’t know what she means.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t do this. I can’t make a mistake like this again.”
I look at her. At the way she’s standing there, hand still resting lightly against Tabby, like she’s grounding herself in something simpler because everything else feels too complicated. There’s a history in her words. I want to know more, but I know she’s not going to share.
“You believe that,” I say.
“I have to.”
I nod once, then I step back. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure I could honor her wishes. And the last thing I need is to disappoint another person.