A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the cabin chill.
There is absolutely no reason that sentence should be as hot as it is.
None.
Zero.
I shift, just a little, leaning back against the side of the couch so my shoulder brushes his leg.
It’s barely a touch.
An accident. Probably.
He goes rigid.
“Does it bother you?” I ask softly. “That I’m… here? That I pushed my way into this?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
Ouch.
Then he adds, “And no.”
Less ouch.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making it stick up in messy spikes. “You make everything harder.”
I bite back a smirk. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
He turns his head, glowering down at me. “You don’t listen. You take unnecessary risks. You push buttons just to see what happens. You scare the hell out of me, Lark.”
The last part comes out raw.
Honest.
I blink. “I scare you?” I echo, surprised.
“Yes,” he growls. It’s absurdly hot, the way he says it.
“But why?” I press. “You’re the one with the bat-proof muscles.”
His gaze darkens. “Because one of these days… you’re going to push the wrong button. And it’s going to be my fault if I let you keep doing it.”
“Maybe I know where all the buttons are,” I say, voice low. “Maybe that’s why you’re scared.”
We stare at each other.
The lamp hums softly.
The forest sings outside.
And inside, the tension goes from a simmer to a crackling, electric boil.
I shift again, and this time I don’t pretend it’s accidental. I turn and kneel so I’m facing him, hands on the couch cushion near his hip for balance.
