Page 107 of Lost Then Found
“Mom?”
The voice slices through the moment like a damn chainsaw. We both freeze.
“I can’t find my science folder!” Hudson yells from upstairs. “I need it for school tomorrow!”
She blinks fast, coming back to herself like she just snapped out of a dream. Her eyes are wide, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed—and her voice is rough when she answers, like she’s still trying to remember how to talk.
“I’ll be up in a minute!” she calls, forcing the words out with a tone that almost sounds normal. Almost.
Then her gaze swings back to mine, mortified. Turned on. Breathless.
I bite back a groan and press my forehead to hers, trying not to laugh. Trying not to lose my damn mind.
“I was two seconds from being inside you,” I murmur, brushing some of her hair back from her face. “You know that, right?”
Her hand flattens against my chest, and she pushes.
Not hard. Not like she’s angry. Just enough that the space between us stretches—just enough that I feel the shift before she even says a word.
Her eyes drop, lashes low, and when she looks up at me again, it’s different.
Colder. Clearer. Like she just remembered where we are and who we are and how many reasons there are for this to go wrong.
I know that look.
She’s slipping.
“I can’t…” she starts. She shakes her head like it’ll erase what we just did. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
The air tightens around us.
I blink, slow. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”
“That was a minute ago,” she fires back, grabbing her hair and pulling it into some half-twist like she needs something to do with her hands. “Before I remembered my twelve-year-old is upstairs and you’re—” Shestops herself, lips pressing into a tight line. “This is messy, Boone.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Lark—”
She climbs off the counter, her chin tucked like if she doesn’t look at me, none of this happened.
I move to block her path, but she shoves past me anyway—shoulder catching mine just enough to make it sting.
“Lark,” I say again, catching her wrist before she gets two steps away.
She stops, spine going rigid. But she doesn’t turn. Not yet.
“Lark. Please,” I repeat, softer now.
She turns. Slowly. And when her eyes meet mine, they’re full of heat, but not the kind I want. It’s not want anymore—it’s guilt. Regret. The wall going back up, brick by damn brick.
But her eyes still get me.
The same blue, ringed with green, that I’ve known my whole life. The same eyes that used to squint at me through the sun-drenched summers of our childhood, full of laughter as we raced across the ranch. The same ones that locked onto mine when we were teenagers, tangled together in the front seat of my truck with slick skin, her nails dragging down my back, leaving little half-moon marks like she was trying to etch herself into me.
She’s seeing it, too. I can tell.
For a split second, it’s like we’re standing in all those memories at once, layered over each other, stretching from then to now. Her gaze flickers, something unspoken flashing through it.
