Scarlett’s POV
It started with a brush of fingertips.
I didn’t mean to reach for him, not consciously. I was tired. My body ached from days of high tension and sleepless nights.
But something in me reached anyway.
He was sitting beside me on the couch. We were both watching some ridiculous black-and-white detective film Jasper insisted was a “classic,” though I was fairly certain he just liked the corny dialogue.
The silence between us had changed since the night of the flowers.
It wasn’t awkward anymore.
It was expectant.
And then, halfway through the film, when the detective lit his third cigarette and gave a monologue about betrayal and long legs, Jasper laughed, that soft, gravel-edged laugh that used to make my skin buzz.
I reached for his hand.
And he didn’t even blink.
He
