Page 52 of Freeing Lark

That realization hit Hoot harder than any mission briefing ever had. He’d known her only a handful of weeks, yet somehow she’d slipped past defenses he’d spent years building. He found himself thinking about her when she wasn’t around. He wondered if she’d eaten, whether she’d made it safely to the island, what she was working on, whether that headache had finally gone away.

He even started noticing the little things. She tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. She rambled when she was trying to fill an uncomfortable silence. Even how her entire face changed when she talked about art.

And the strangest part was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it from happening. That scared him more than the attraction ever had. Attraction was simple. It could be acknowledged, enjoyed, and walked away from.

This was different. Lark made him want things he’d trained himself not to need. Words like connection, and trust came to mind. Wants he’d never realized he desired began to surface. Someone waiting for him when he came home. Someone to laugh with.

She made him want to lower his guard, and Hoot knew better than most what happened when a man lowered his guard at the wrong time. Still, when he thought about her, the walls didn’t feel quite as necessary.

He looked at the piece of wood again, a palpable sense of worry manifesting itself, which disturbed him to a greater extent than was warranted. “Don’t talk about this with anyone,” he requested indicating the board, moving on quickly from his near declaration of something unnamed before she could say anything.

Her expression changed. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Because it’s classified?”

“Partly.”

She sighed. “And the other part?”

“To keep you safe.”

“Okay. That’s a good answer. But tell me at least this: was Calloway connected to one of your missions?”

Hoot looked at her. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

He hesitated. “A teammate died.”

Her expression softened immediately. “Oh, Cormac.”

He looked away. The way her voice shaped his real name was something he was genuinely growing to enjoy. He decided to give her more. “I had a flashback downstairs.”

“I figured.” She stepped closer. “Is that something that happens often?”

“Not usually in public like that. More often in dreams.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded. For some reason, he didn’t want to leave. Maybe because she’d asked without demanding. Maybe because she hadn’t treated him like he was broken.

She simply stood there. Waiting.

“His name was Bullet,” Hoot finally said.

“Bullet?”

“Nickname.”

Her lips curved upwards into a smile. “Of course it is.”

He leaned against the worktable. “His real name doesn’t matter. He loved the nickname more.”

Lark smiled. Hoot found himself smiling too. “Kid was barely old enough to vote.”

“He was young?”