“Lark.”
Her name in my mouth has changed over the last couple of weeks. It used to feel like a caution. Then a question. Now it feels like claiming and prayer and trouble all at once.
She exhales softly, and her hands find my shirt as if they already know their place there.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere farther off, lower now. The worst of the storm is still headed our way, but the first smattering has moved east. What’s left is the aftermath.
Inside, the distance between us is reduced to nothing by inches. She tips her face up. This time, when I kiss her, there’s no uncertainty in it.
Her mouth opens under mine with a soft, immediate surrender that hits like a match dropped into dry brush. Heat moves through me so fast it almost feels like another kind of alarm—something instinctive and urgent and impossible to ignore once it starts.
I back her up one slow step until her hips meet the counter. Just enough to feel the edge of it and know exactly how little space there is left to pretend this could still be simple.
Her fingers slide higher, catching at the back of my neck, and every point of contact rewrites something in me. The storm.The fires. Kenzie. Nolan. The station. All of it still exists. None of it disappears. But none of it matters enough to stop this either.
When I finally pull back, it’s only far enough to breathe and look at her. Her eyes are dark with everything we’ve both been holding too long.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
She shakes her head once.
“No.”
That one word opens a door I don’t think either of us can close again.
The thunder cracks so hard it rattles the windows. For a second, everything goes white—the flash of lightning cutting through the kitchen, catching Lark in the doorway like something I don’t deserve to touch.
Then the lights flicker. And when they steady again, she’s still looking at me like she hasn’t decided whether to run or stay. That’s my last warning.
I cross the space between us before I can think better of it.
Her breath catches when I reach her, my hand sliding to her waist, pulling her into me like I need the contact to stay grounded. The storm rolls again outside, lower this time, and the sound settles somewhere deep in my chest.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, even though I don’t slow down.
She doesn’t.
Her hands find my shirt instead, gripping, pulling me closer like she’s already made the decision I’m trying to give her.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
My mouth finds hers again—harder this time, less careful. Weeks of restraint snap tight between us, every second I’ve spenttrying not to think about her crashing straight through whatever control I thought I had.
Lightning flashes again. The room flickers. And I don’t give a damn.
My hand slides to the back of her thigh, lifting her just enough that she gasps against my mouth, her body reacting before she can catch it. I feel it everywhere—the shift, the heat, the way she presses closer like she’s chasing something she doesn’t want to name yet.
“Bedroom,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hesitate. That might be the most dangerous part.
I don’t carry her—not fully. Just enough that she stays close as we move, my hand steady at her back, guiding, grounding. The lights flicker again as we pass the hallway, the storm pressing harder now, rain hitting the roof in sharp, uneven bursts.
By the time we make it to the bedroom, I’m already past the point of thinking clearly.
The door barely makes it shut before she’s pulling at my shirt again, her fingers impatient now, less controlled than before. Good. Because I’m right there with her.
I help her this time—dragging the fabric over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me without looking. Her eyes drop for half a second, and the way her breath shifts tells me everything I need to know.
