Page 61 of At First Spark
His mouth shifts slightly.
“You think this is simple?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says. “Because it’s not.”
My breath catches again, and the moment stretches. Tightens. Everything in me goes still except the part that feels too aware of how close he is, how easy it would be to close the remaining distance.
Too easy.
“That’s not what this is,” I say.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His hand lifts slightly, hovering just enough that I feel the intention before the contact. Because I still don’t have an answer that doesn’t make this more complicated.
And he knows it.
The air shifts. Every inch between us feels deliberate now. Intentional.
His hand lifts again. Slow this time. Like he’s giving me time to stop him if I want to.
I don’t. That’s the problem. His fingers brush my wrist first. Light. Barely there. Still enough to send a sharp, immediate awareness up my arm that settles somewhere deeper before I can stop it. My breath catches.
Around us everything else fades. There’s just—this. Him. Close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his focus doesn’t waver even for a second.
“You’re not pulling away,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
“I should.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
The word barely makes it out. His thumb shifts slightly against my wrist, and somehow that’s worse. Because it’s a choice. My choice.
His hand slides higher. Not far. Just enough that I feel it differently. My pulse jumps against his fingers. His gaze drops again. And I know exactly what happens next if I don’t stop this. If I let it go one step further. Two. Three.
I want to. That’s the truth. The part I don’t say out loud.
The part I’ve been ignoring since the moment he looked at me across a kitchen like he already understood something I hadn’t admitted yet.
My free hand lifts. I don’t realize I’m doing it until my fingers curl lightly into the front of his shirt. The contact sends something sharp and electric through both of us.
His breath shifts. Mine follows.
Surprising us both, I take a step back. Fast. Like I’ve just remembered something important. Like I’ve just crossed a line I can’t uncross.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
The words come out uneven. Not nearly as controlled as I want them to be. Holt doesn’t move. Not immediately. Then he drops his hand.
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I.
And that’s the problem.
