Page 149 of At First Spark
“Long enough.”
Her gaze narrows slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
She huffs softly, pushing off the door and moving toward the counter. There’s a stiffness in the way she moves, subtle but there, and my attention tracks it immediately.
“Your arm,” I say.
“It’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
She glances at me, something almost amused flickering beneath the exhaustion. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah.”
“Consistently.”
I reach for the first-aid kit before she can stop me.
“Sit.”
She rolls her eyes but does it anyway, settling onto the stool with a quiet exhale, her body folding inward for just a second before she straightens again. The bandage is already slightly damp at the edges, and when I peel it back carefully, the cut beneath is cleaner than it looked last night but still angry, still fresh.
“You should’ve told me it was this deep,” I mutter.
“It’s not deep.”
“It didn’t need to be to get infected.”
She watches me work for a second, then looks away, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the counter in a rhythm that feels more like distraction than impatience.
“You always do this?” she asks.
“What?”
“Take over.”
I pause just long enough for the question to sit properly, then finish cleaning the cut before answering.
“I don’t see this as taking over,” I say evenly. “I see it as handling what needs to be handled.”
Her mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. “Same difference.”
I wrap the bandage again, tighter this time, making sure it holds.
“Not really.”
She doesn’t argue. That’s what gets me.
Instead, she shifts slightly, her knee brushing mine where I stand between her and the counter. It’s a small thing. Accidental, probably. But the contact lingers longer than it should, long enough to remind me exactly how close we were last night, how quickly things changed, how little distance there is now between what we are and what we’ve been trying not to define.
I step back first. I need the space, I don’t trust what happens if I don’t take it.
The coffee finishes brewing, the sharp scent filling the kitchen. Lark slides off the stool and pours two cups without asking, handing one to me like she’s done it a hundred times before.
“Thank you,” I say.
