Page 104 of At First Spark
“That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “You always this annoying, or did you wake up early for it today?”
He grins. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
That pulls a small laugh out of me before I can stop it.
Beckett catches it immediately, his expression shifting just enough that the teasing edges off and something more thoughtful slips in underneath.
“There he is,” he says quietly.
I frown. “Who?”
“That guy,” he replies, nodding toward me. “The one who doesn’t walk around like the weight of the world is strapped to his back.”
My jaw tightens slightly.
“That guy grew up.”
“Yeah,” Beckett says, pushing off the locker. “He did. Doesn’t mean he disappeared.”
The truth is, I know exactly what he’s talking about. The version of me that didn’t think too far ahead. That didn’tmeasure every decision against the worst possible outcome. That didn’t hesitate before stepping into something just because it might hurt when it ended.
That version…didn’t stay. Didn’t build anything. Didn’t let anyone get close enough to matter. And now I don’t know how to be that version again. Or if I should be.
A call comes in just before noon. The tone cuts through the station, sharp and immediate, snapping everything into motion without hesitation. Gear is grabbed, boots pulled on, and gloves shoved into place. Muscle memory takes over before thought has a chance to catch up.
By the time we’re in the truck, I’m already running through the checklist in my head.
Structure fire.
Residential.
Unknown occupants.
Potential spread.
Routine.
Except it doesn’t feel like it today.
The closer we get, the more awareness crawls up the back of my neck—not panic, not fear, just the unmistakable feeling that something isn’t right. The smell hits before we even step out. Smoke, thick and bitter, curls through the air in uneven waves. It’s contained mostly to the kitchen by the time we arrive, flames knocked down by a neighbor with a hose and a lot of luck, but the damage is still there. Blackened cabinets. Warped drywall. Heat lingering in the bones of the structure like it hasn’t decided to leave yet.
I move through it automatically, checking for hotspots, clearing debris, and scanning for anything that might reignite. But my mind—It’s not fully here.
Every curl of smoke reminds me of the inn. Every scorched edge pulls me back to that patch of dried brush, to the way the fire started, to how quickly it could’ve spread if it hadn’t been caught when it was.
To Lark, standing in the middle of it like she refused to let it take anything else from her.
“Wright.”
Mac’s voice cuts through the haze. I look up. He stands a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing.
