LARK #3
He squeezes my hand and tugs gently, just enough to pull me toward him. “Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low, not quite rough, not quite steady either.
I move without hesitation, sliding closer until I’m pressed against him, my head resting on his chest, the steady beat of his heart thudding beneath my cheek.
His arm wraps around me, his hand drifting into my hair, fingers moving slowly through the strands like he’s thinking about something else.
My leg drapes across his thigh, the blanket tangled around us now, the whole room dim and still.
Boone’s lips graze the top of my head, the words barely more than breath when they come. “I’ve never told anyone about Jack.”
I turn my head slightly, just enough to look up at him, my chin resting against his chest. “No one?”
He shakes his head. “Only my therapist,” he says, thumb absently tracing a line against my scalp. “And now you.”
I watch him. The way he tiptoes around the truth, like it’s still sharp enough to cut him open. The way he doesn’t say the thing directly, but it’s there—in the tight grip of his hand, in the way his jaw won’t quite relax.
“Why?” I ask.
His fingers go still in my hair, like I’ve hit something that makes him flinch. He exhales slowly, and the sound of it weighs more than the words that follow.
“Because I’m scared,” he says. “That if I say it out loud, it’ll change the way they look at me. My family. That they’ll see me as the one who got it wrong. The one who couldn’t save him.”
That lands hard.
Not because I didn’t expect it. But because I did.
I push myself up just enough to see him better, to take his face in my hands like I can steady both of us with the touch. My thumb brushes along his jaw as I guide his eyes back to mine.
“They won’t,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake. “They love you. You didn’t fail anyone, Boone. You did everything you could. What happened…that’s not on you. You don’t have to keep bleeding for it. ”
He nods, once. Not because he fully believes me, but maybe because he wants to.
I stay close, hand still cupping his cheek, and I kiss him. Slow and sure, not asking for anything, not trying to fix it. Just letting him feel it. Letting him feel me.
When I pull back, I stay where I am. My forehead resting against his, my hand still holding him like maybe I can hold this for him, too.
“Your family loves you,” I whisper. “Hudson loves you.”
I pause, long enough to let that sink in.
And then I say the thing I haven’t said out loud. The thing that’s been sitting just under my skin for a while now.
“I love you too.”
It comes out low, but steady. The truth of it tastes a little like fear—but I mean it. Every word.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” I tell him. “Not anymore. You can talk to me. About any of it.”
His breath stutters against my skin.
It’s out, hanging in the quiet like it’s waiting to be caught.
My heart lodges itself in my throat because I realize, even as I say it, what I’ve really said.
I haven’t told him those words since I was eighteen, since he was standing in the doorway of my life with one foot already out, the engine running, the future pulling him away from this town—away from me.
Love is funny like that.
It doesn’t always leave when you tell it to.
It doesn’t pack up neatly when someone walks away or vanish just because it’s been years since you let yourself say the words out loud.
Sometimes it stays—quiet and patient—tucked beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this one.
When everything you thought had been buried rises back up, warm and whole and undeniable.
Maybe love never fades away. Maybe it just waits for you to come home to it.
I stare at Boone, his eyes fixed on me like he’s trying to memorize this version of me—the one brave enough to say what I’ve held back for so long. And I think about how maybe love isn’t this sweeping, cinematic thing.
Maybe it’s not loud or all-consuming or perfect.
Maybe love was a boy with dirt on his knees and sunshine in his smile, pressing yellow daisies into my palm. Stems crooked, petals bruised from being held too tight—but he always gave them to me like they were priceless. Like I was.
And I was too young to know that kind of offering was everything.
Maybe it was the red popsicle—the cherry one he always handed over without a word. He always insisted that grape was fine. Swore he didn’t care. We’d sit barefoot on the curb, sticky fingers, scraped shins, talking about nothing and everything, like time wasn’t real.
I didn’t find out until years later he hated grape popsicles.
Maybe love was the way he waited for me at the fence line after dinner, backlit by a sky thick with fireflies, an old quilt spread beneath us. He’d point to the clouds and spin stories out of thin air—just to make me laugh. Just to keep me close.
And maybe love still looks like that. Just with older hands. Longer shadows.
Still tender.
Still true.
Just…grown up.
Maybe love is a man who notices when I haven’t eaten and sets a plate in front of me without saying a word. Who turns the heater up too high because he knows I run cold. Who never moves my things when I leave them scattered—just steps around them like he’s always known how to make room for me.
Maybe it’s not big or loud or movie-scene perfect.
Maybe love is soft. Quiet. Lived-in.
Maybe it’s all those little things, strung together in the silence between words.
Not flashy. Not forced.
Just real.
Loving Boone has never felt like fireworks. It feels like the steady glow of a porch light left on for you. Like someone saying, without words, I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Lay it down, love. You can rest now.
Boone watches me.
Doesn’t rush to fill the silence, doesn’t look away.
Just holds my gaze, steady and quiet, like he knows exactly what it cost me to say those words out loud.
Like he sees that I didn’t just say them—I gave them.
Unwrapped something I’d been keeping tucked away and handed it over without asking for anything in return.
He leans in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s softer this time. Quieter.
Then his voice, low against my mouth—
“I love you too. Always have.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb sweeping gently along my jaw. “I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
The laugh slips out before I can stop it. Soft. Surprised. It catches somewhere between my chest and my throat—like it’s too much and not enough all at once.
Then he kisses me again, deeper this time. His hand cups the side of my face, fingers curling into my skin like he’s trying to pull me into him. Like if he holds on tight enough, maybe we won’t lose this.
There’s something about the way he touches me—like he knows my body in a way no one else ever has. Not just the shape of me, but the rhythm. The weight. The parts I try to keep hidden.
Eventually, I pull back. Just far enough to breathe, my forehead resting against his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For telling me about Jack.”
He nods once, slow. Measured. Like he means it. “Of course.”
“He sounds like he was a good man,” I say. “A brave one.”
Boone’s jaw shifts. Subtle. Barely there. But I feel his hand tighten at my hip.
“He was all of that,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “And more.”
I trace a circle on his chest, right above his heartbeat. “Maybe… when you’re ready, you could tell your family about him. ”
His eyes flick to mine. There’s something unreadable there, like he’s not sure if that’s a door he wants to open all the way yet.
So I keep going.
“Talking about them—it doesn’t mean letting them go,” I say. “It’s how we carry them. Keep them with us. Keep them real.”
He watches me for a beat. Then a breath huffs out of him, low and quiet, almost a smile. “When did you get so wise?”
I grin, leaning back just slightly. “I read a fortune cookie once. Life-changing.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest as he pulls me closer again. I nuzzle into him, fingers still resting lightly over his heart.
“Do you miss your dad?” I ask, my voice soft, like saying it too loud might scare the moment off.
Boone let’s out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “But…it’s complicated. There’s still some resentment there that I think I never really worked through.”
His fingers trace slow circles on my back, the rhythm steady, like the words are coming from somewhere deep.
“He was tough to love sometimes,” he admits. “Always expected more from me than I knew how to give. But he taught me a lot. Things I didn’t realize I’d carry with me until I already was.”
He pauses, then glances down at me, his chin nudging my forehead. “We’re more alike than I probably want to admit.”
I smile, nudging his shin with my foot under the covers. “You and Lane were a lot alike.”
“I wouldn’t say a lot. ”
“Both stubborn as hell,” I say, my voice tilting with a grin.
He shifts just enough to bump his hip into mine, the mattress dipping beneath us. “Takes one to know one.”
I laugh into his skin, fingers trailing along the lines of muscle on his stomach. “But you both love your people like it’s your job,” I add, softer now. “Like protecting them is just part of who you are.”
Boone doesn’t say anything right away. His hand finds a strand of my hair and twists it gently around his finger. The silence that lays between us isn’t heavy—it’s comfortable. Lived-in.
Then, after a while, he shifts again, his voice low. “Do you miss your dad?”
I nod, my cheek still pressed against his chest. “All the time.”
I let the memories float up the way they always do—muted at the edges, bright in the middle.
“I love talking about him,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I wish Hudson could’ve known him. He would’ve thought he was the funniest guy alive.”
Boone doesn’t speak, but I feel his hand gentle against my back like he’s telling me to keep going.