Page 193 of Lost Then Found
I swallow hard, the ache building low in my throat. My hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the cleft in his chin, resting there like it always used to, like my body still remembers how to touch him without thinking.
“I hate feeling like someone’s burden,” I admit quietly.
His hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone like he’s trying to erase the words before they can root too deep.
“You’re not,” he says, soft but sure. “You never were.”
And then he kisses me again.
Not to hush me.
To anchor me.
To press the truth into my skin like maybe—if he’s careful enough—I’ll finally believe it.
I kiss him back, fully this time. With both hands. With all of the fear and gratitude and want I haven’t figured out how to say out loud. He presses in closer, like he belongs there, like I belong with him.
When we finally pull apart, I shift slightly, just enough to notice the leather-bound journal sitting on the nightstand beside him. It’s worn around the edges, the spine softened from being opened and closed more times than someone like Boone would probably admit.
My fingers drift toward it. “Is that yours?”
Boone follows my gaze, runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
I blink, surprised. “I didn’t know you journaled.”
He shrugs, casual—but there’s a flicker of hesitation behind it, something unspoken resting just beneath his ribs.
“My therapist recommended it,” he says. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”
My brows pull together. “You go to therapy?”
He lets out a quiet laugh—not embarrassed, just faintly amused. More at my surprise than the question itself. “Not as much now. Used to go weekly. Down to every other.”
I nod, slow. Don’t say anything for a beat, because it catches me off guard. Not in a bad way. Just in thatrelearning-someone-you-thought-you-already-knewkind of way.
Boone Wilding, who used to handle everything with a clenched jaw and fists shoved deep in his pockets, letting someone help him? Letting someone in?
“That’s…really good,” I say, my voice softer than it was a second ago. “I’m proud of you.”
He looks over at me. Eyes gentler now. Like he heard that deeper layerin my voice—the one that meant more than the words did. He opens the journal resting beside him, flipping past pages like they aren’t private, like letting me in means all the way.
He stops halfway through, pulls out a photo tucked between two dog-eared pages. It’s creased down the middle, edges worn thin from too many times being folded and unfolded.
“Remember my buddy Jack I mentioned?” he asks, handing it over.
I take it carefully, thumb brushing the corner so I don’t smudge it. The photo’s old, grainy—but Boone’s face is unmistakable. Buzz cut. Sun-burnt nose. A cocky grin like someone said something inappropriate right before the shutter snapped. His arm’s slung around another guy—Jack, I’m guessing—blond, built like Boone, both of them in uniform with sweat on their shirts and dirt on their faces. Boone’s flipping off the camera. Jack’s sticking out his tongue.
It’s chaotic. And weirdly perfect.
“You look like babies,” I say, smiling.
“We were,” he murmurs, mouth tipping up, but only slightly. “We had a good time, though.”
I look down at the photo again, at the way Boone’s leaning in toward Jack, both of them caught in that ridiculous mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. There’s an ease in the image I haven’t seen on Boone’s face since high school.
“Are you and Jack still close?” I ask, glancing back up at him.
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, just enough to be noticeable, the muscle shifting beneath his skin. His gaze stays locked on the photo, like there’s something in it only he can see. The playful edge that had crept into his voice is gone now, replaced by something quieter, more careful.
