Page 16 of The Spark

He paused. Stilled.

His hand brushed my cheek, his forehead pressed to mine, and for a moment we just breathed there—close enough to feel each other’s heartbeat.

“I wasn’t trying to make this complicated,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“I just… needed to touch you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

I kissed his cheek. His jaw. His lips.

Then pulled the hoodie back down over my chest and reached for the blanket.

He didn’t fight me. Just exhaled and sat back, palms dragging over his thighs.

And we sat in the stillness, both of us trying to believe that stopping made it safer. But neither of us moved. And neither of us forgot.

And when he left, hours later, I still had the taste of him in my mouth and the weight of something unspoken wrapped around me like the hoodie I never took off.

7

Present day…

My closet looked like a war zone.

Shoes kicked out of boxes, hangers twisted, two maybe-pile dresses already tossed on the bed. I’d pulled half a dozen options and still couldn’t decide what feltright.

I glanced toward the back of the closet—where, tucked between an old jean jacket and a few dresses that didn’t feel like me anymore, hungthehoodie.

Soft. Faded. Still holding his scent in places I hadn’t washed out on purpose.

It looked unassuming, but it carried weight. History.

The first time I put it on, it swallowed me whole.

Dropped past my thighs, sleeves too long, hood too deep.

I’d curled into it on a night when I needed comfort more than I wanted to admit—and it gave it to me.

But that wasn’t the only reason I kept it.

It was the way his hand slid over the hem once—his fingers grazing my bare thigh like a question. The brush of his knuckles against my skin making my breath catch.

It was the memory of the way he looked at me in it.

Like I wasn’t just wearing his clothes—I was wearinghim.

The way his mouth had devoured me that night.

Slow. Wet. Worshipful.

How I’d come undone with the fabric bunched around my waist, his voice in my ear, his tongue between my thighs.

That hoodie wasn’t just a hoodie.

It washim.

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