Page 131 of Lost Then Found
His brow arches. “Bossy, bossy.”
But he does what I say, dropping onto the couch like he’s humoring me.
Boone watches me as I settle onto the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. Casual, like I’m not aware of the way his eyes track every move.
My feet land in his lap, and his brow quirks, amused.
But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t shove me off. Just rests a hand on my shins, thumb dragging absentmindedly over my skin.
I pretend not to notice.
“You’re real comfortable making demands, huh?”
I flip open the book. “I’m just trying to expand your horizons.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. “Uh-huh.”
I clear my throat, lifting the book. “Alright, Wilding. Pay attention. You might actually learn something.”
He huffs out a breath, tilting his head back against the couch. “I doubt it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Be quiet. Class is in session.”
Then, before he can say another word, I slip my ice-cold toes under his thigh.
Boone jerks like he’s been electrocuted. “Jesus, Lark!”
I bite back a snicker. “What? You’re warm.”
His glare is half-hearted at best, but his hand instinctively presses down over my ankle, trapping my foot there. Like he’s already decided to just deal with it.
I fight a grin.
Boone shakes his head, but there’s something softer in the way he leans back, more relaxed in the way he stays close.
I tap the book. “Now, hush. Let’s culture your uneducated ass.”
His chuckle is quiet, but he lets me read to him like this is just something we do.
For the next ten minutes, I read poems, and he listens.
At first, I think he’s just humoring me, indulging me the way you woulda kid handing you a crayon masterpiece, nodding along, murmuringthat’s nice, sweetheartwhile only half paying attention.
But the longer I read, the quieter he gets.
His hands, resting lazily on my knees, gradually start to drift. Not intentional, not obvious—just small movements, like his fingers are following the curve of my legs on their own.
By the time I’m finishing the next poem, his palms have found their way to my thighs, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of my sweatpants.
I swallow, keeping my voice even, refusing to let it show how much his hands on me still affect me.
How they always have.
I finish the poem, setting the book down beside me, and when I look up, his head is leaned back against the couch, but his eyes are on me.
Dark. Steady.
I clear my throat, shifting slightly, and his hands tighten—just for a second—before relaxing again.
