Page 192 of Lost Then Found
Boone crosses his arms, tension barely hidden beneath his easy stance. “Riley mentioned something at the bar tonight,” he says, voice even but edged with something tighter. “Said Vaughn’s been nosing around Bluebell.”
My hands still on the laptop, the cursor blinking on an email I’ve already read three times. “What?”
“He brought up permits,” Boone continues, pushing off the counter and moving toward the stove where dinner’s simmering, “but he said it could all just be noise for now.”
I sit up straighter in bed, the comforter pooling around my waist as the mattress shifts beneath me. “Are you serious?”
Boone nods, reaching for a pair of plates. “I’m going to the Harts’ tomorrow. See what else Vaughn knows about all of this.”
“Youhatethe Harts,” I say, eyes narrowing as I watch him spoon crispy potatoes onto one of the plates, the edges browned just right, steam curling up in slow, lazy tendrils. Beside them, seared chicken glistens in its own juices, speckled with rosemary and salt, a side of blistered green beans tossed in lemon and garlic filling the rest of the plate.
He doesn’t turn around. Just says, low and simple, “I don’t hate all of them.”
I huff out a breath that’s half a laugh. “Most.”
He shrugs, still facing the stove. “Doesn’t mean they’re not useful.”
I close the laptop gently. It makes a soft click as it folds shut, but it feels final. Like we’ve hit the wall on facts and proof and the exhausting loop of trying to convince people of something we already know is true.
“Vaughn’s not going to give us anything,” I say, shifting a little on the bed. “He’s too careful.”
Boone’s voice is calm—too calm. “Let me handle it.”
It’s not a question. Not a suggestion. It’s a line drawn in permanent ink, like the plan’s already been made and I’m just catching up.
Before I can say anything, he picks up the plate from the kitchen and brings it to me, setting it down exactly where the laptop was like he’s replacing something heavy with something warm. Then he bends and presses a kiss to my forehead. Soft. Sure. Quiet in the way that matters most. In a way that’s very, very Boone.
And just like that, something shifts.
Not loud. Not obvious. But real. A door creaking open that I didn’t realize I’d locked behind me.
Boone, in my space. His food. His hands. His calm. It feels good. Easyin a way that makes my throat burn. Like this is the thing we were always going to come back to, no matter how far we ran.
He climbs into bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. The scent of pine and laundry detergent and crisp mint toothpaste hits first—clean and warm, a sharp contrast to the mess inside my head. Like something I could reach for with my eyes closed and know that I was home.
He brings the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask for permission. Just wraps itself around me and settles in.
I set the laptop on the floor, the thud soft against the worn wood. Like if I can just tuck it out of reach, I can keep the weight of it—the pressure, the fear, the responsibility—from crawling back up my spine.
“You don’t have to handle this for me,” I say, my voice quieter now. “It’s not yours to carry. You didn’t sign up for any of this.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
Just tilts his head, eyes steady on mine like they’re holding me in place.
“No,” he says. “But I signed up for you.”
And God.
It knocks the breath out of me. That sentence. The way he says it like it’s fact, not a performance. Not a rescue.
Then he leans in, kissing me like he means to say the rest of it with his mouth. No hurry, no noise. Just this deep, grounded intensity that pulls every sharp edge inside me into something softer.
He kisses me like he wants me to stop apologizing for taking up space.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His lips hover close, his breath still mingling with mine.
“So yeah,” he says. “I signed up for this, too.”
