The Spark That Started It All
1605 Words
“Look,” I said, pushing a hand through my still-wet hair. “It was one night. That’s all. He doesn’t even live here.”
“But he made you feel something,” Sophie whispered.
“And you got scared,” Casey added.
I sat up, tension crawling across my skin like static. “I’m not scared.”
They all looked at me. Like I was glass. Like they saw right through the cracks I didn’t want to admit were there.
“Lee…” Sophie’s voice was soft. “It’s okay to want more. You’re allowed.”
“No. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do… vulnerability.”
“You don’t trust,” Casey corrected. “Which is different.”
And maybe she was right.
Because Leo had looked at me like I was worth knowing. Worth more. And that terrified me.
I cracked a smile. “Let’s change the subject. Please. Before I start crying and eating all this ice cream.”
“Oh,” Hailey said, perking up. “Did he eat your a**?”
“HAILEY!”
I choked on air. “Oh my god—”
“I’m trying to lighten the mood!”
“You’re trying to derail my healing.”
“I’m trying to make it fun!”
And just like that, the laughter came back. They were loud and messy and borderline toxic, but they were mine.
Still, when the call ended… when the screen went dark…
The silence in my apartment felt colder than before.
I walked to the window. The sun was bright. Los Angeles buzzed below me. The world moved on.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Leo.
The way he whispered my name.
The way he looked at me like he meant it.
The way it wasn’t just s*x—and we both knew it.
But I’d sent him away. Because that’s what I do.
Even if I didn’t want to.
The TV glowed against the dim of my apartment, painting me in blues and purples. Rue from Euphoria was mid-breakdown, mascara smudged, her sobs swallowing the silence.
I laughed dryly into my spoonful of half-melted Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche. Why do I always relate to broken women on screen?
Caramel slid down my finger, sticky, sweet. My towel was still wrapped around me from the shower, clinging to damp skin. For once, the silence didn’t ache. It felt… peaceful.
Beep. Beep.
My phone buzzed again against the couch. Without looking, I swiped it up. Only one person had the nerve to bother me during my sacred TV-ice-cream spiral: Hailey. Probably reminding me about our girls’ night tomorrow.
I answered with a grin. “I’m going to sue your b***h ass for disturbing my peace and quiet time.”
But the voice that came through wasn’t hers.
“Hi, Emily.”
I froze.
Everything inside me stilled, as if my heartbeat had been unplugged. My smile vanished, spoon suspended mid-air.
That voice.
That ghost.
Damon.
For two years I’d buried him, sealed the coffin with concrete, tried to forget his name. But there he was, speaking it back into existence with a single word.
“Hello? Are you there?” His voice softened on the second try, velvet against my skin, like he knew what he was doing to me.
I hung up.
My hands trembled. My chest burned. My towel felt too tight, the air too thin.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A text.
My gut twisted before I even opened it.
> Damon:
I’m sorry for calling. I wouldn’t have reached out unless it mattered. I got your number and address from Sophie. I’m not coming to see you—don’t worry. I’ve sent someone to pick up my belongings. There’s a file I need. It’s urgent. Thank you, Emily. I hope you’re okay.
A file?
After two years of silence, he crawls back into my life for a file?
My blood boiled.
He should be grateful I hadn’t torched his things when I moved. Instead, I’d boxed them neatly, labeled them like some unpaid archivist of our dead relationship.
I stormed to the garage, fury thrumming in my veins. The remote creaked the door open, letting sunlight slice into the dusty dark.
In the corner sat the bin, Sharpie-scrawled: DAMON’S CRAP.
I yanked it forward. Something clattered out and hit the concrete with a sharp metallic clang.
A ratchet.
The ratchet slipped from his things and hit the concrete floor with a metallic clang that echoed like a gunshot through the garage.
I bent down, picked it up—
And the world spun.
My knees buckled. My vision blurred. The little tool might as well have been a detonator because it blew the lock off memories I had chained, buried, and sworn never to touch again.
The cold steel in my palm was heavier than memory, heavier than two years of silence.
And just like that, the past swallowed me whole.
And just like that—time folded.
The first night.
The night Damon walked into my life like sin dressed as salvation.
I was leaving Dad’s anniversary dinner that night, still smelling faintly of his cologne from all the hugs. Casey had been buzzing my phone for hours, reminding me not to blow off the blind date she set up for me.
“Wear the black dress, Lily,” she’d written earlier. “The one that makes men propose after one drink.”
I laughed it off, but I still wore it—low neckline, slit on the side, heels sharp enough to kill a man.
The restaurant was supposed to be Bestia—industrial chic, downtown, all candlelight and exposed brick. Thirty-five minutes from my dad’s place if you hit green lights. I left early, music loud, pretending I wasn’t nervous.
And then—just outside Glendale—the car coughed. Spluttered. Died.
The dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree, and my heart sank.
“Of course,” I muttered, smacking the steering wheel. “Of-f*****g-course.”
I pulled over to the shoulder, the dark stretching out around me. It was late. Too late. My skin prickled with that kind of fear you only feel when you’re a woman stranded on the side of the road at night.
I dialed Sophie.
She picked up on the second ring, sounding flustered. “Lee? What’s wrong?”
“My car,” I sighed. “Dead. I was headed to the date Casey set up. Can you—”
“Wait, wait.” She cut me off, laughing. “Back up. A date? Emily Lee Harrison on a date? Holy s**t, pigs are flying.”
“Don’t start,” I groaned.
“Oh, I’m starting. Who is he? Do you like him? Did you shave?”
“SO-PHIE!”
Her laugh cracked through the line, warm and teasing. “Okay, okay. Where are you?”
I rattled off the location.
She hummed. “Alright. I’ll send someone. … stay in the car. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“Copy that, Mom.”
Thirty minutes later, headlights flared behind me. A taxi pulled up. For a second, I thought Sophie had just sent me a ride.
But then the door opened.
And he stepped out.
---
Damon.
Even now, the memory ripped through me like lightning.
Tall, broad-shouldered, black jeans that clung to thighs like sin. His T-shirt was simple, grey, stretched tight across a chest that looked carved by gods. Tattoos teased from under his sleeve, shadows of ink against warm, golden-brown skin.
And his face—
Sharp jawline, cheekbones sculpted, lips full and infuriatingly kissable. But it was his eyes that burned me alive. Dark. Intense. Eyes that didn’t just look at you—they devoured.
I felt heat spread through my chest, down to my stomach, lower. My body reacted before my brain did.
I wasn’t looking at a stranger on the side of the highway. I was looking at danger dressed as desire.
He carried a toolbox in one hand, casual, like it weighed nothing.
“Emily?” His voice was deep, velvet laced with gravel.
“Yes,” I managed, my throat dry.
He nodded, crouched by the hood, and within seconds, he was all grease-stained hands and focus, sleeves pushing up to reveal forearms that made my imagination short-circuit.
He leaned against the car, pretending not to stare. But every time his shirt tugged against his back, every ripple of muscle as he worked—it was a losing battle.
When he tugged his shirt over his head, wiping sweat with the hem, I nearly forgot how to breathe. His body was… perfection. Defined abs, V-lines that disappeared under his waistband, skin glistening faintly under the streetlight.
My brain screamed: He’s a mechanic. He’s here to fix your car. Get a grip.
But my body whispered: He’s here to ruin you.
---
Minutes later, he knocked on my window.
“All done.”
I rolled it down, clutching my purse. “How much?”
He quoted the price. I pulled out bills, added extra, and handed them over with shaking fingers.
He looked at the money, then at me. His brow arched.
“You gave too much.”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly.
But he pressed the bills back into my palm, holding on just long enough for my pulse to trip over itself. His touch was warm. Strong. Grounding.
“Only take what’s fair,” he said simply, his voice low, certain.
And just like that—my heart was gone.
What kind of man in LA turns down extra cash? What kind
- Writer
