Page 80 of At First Spark
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?”
