Page 159 of At First Spark
I groan in response before whispering his name like a plea, and I know that I have a long night ahead of me, but I’ll be damned if I won’t give him everything that we both desire.
After two more rounds, Holt’s hand rests at my waist, steady, grounding, not pulling, not holding too tight. I lean into him without thinking.
Outside, the wind shifts slightly, brushing against the house in a way that sends a faint ripple through the silence.
“Stay here tonight,” he says quietly.
I let out a soft breath, glancing around the space, then back at him.
“I already am.”
Something in his expression softens.
“I meant here, in my bed. I want you close, just like this.”
Any lingering tension eases.
And as the lights dim and the world settles around us again, I settle in Holt’s arms, wondering how long I can hold on to this moment before someone tries to snatch it away from me.
Chapter Thirty – Lark
Holt left just after the sun crested the tree line on the farm, and I let him. I let him walk out the door with that quiet determination settled into his shoulders, the kind that says he’s already three steps ahead of whatever’s coming next. The kind that says he’s carrying more than he’s letting me see.
But he kissed me before he left. Slow. Intentional. And somewhere between the warmth of his hands and the steady rhythm of his breath against mine, I let myself believe just for a second that we had time.
Now, hours later, standing in the middle of the inn, I know better. The quiet here isn’t peaceful. It presses in from every direction, settling into the cracks in the walls, the seams in the floorboards, the hollow spaces where damage still lingers beneath the surface. The kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of everything—your breathing, your footsteps, the way the air shifts when nothing should be moving at all. Like every flaw has been outlined in ink, every weakness has been circled and labeled and left behind for someone else to find. For her to find.
“You’re going to tear the plaster off with your eyes if you keep looking at it like that.”
Nolan’s voice cuts through the silence, steady and grounded in a way I’m not sure I am right now.
I blink, dragging my attention away from the jagged seam in the wall, from the place where fire damage bled into water damage, into rot, into something deeper than I’ve had the time or clarity to fully address.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“That’s not thinking. That’s brooding.”
I glance at him, leaning in the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, tape measure clipped to his belt, pen tucked behind his ear like this is just another job.
Like this is normal.
“You’re one to talk.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I don’t pretend it’s productive.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and drop the crowbar against the floor. The sound echoes too loudly in the empty space, bouncing off exposed beams and stripped walls before settling into a quieter tone.
Everything feels muted today as if the house is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
I wedge the crowbar into the seam again, forcing my focus back into something tangible, something real. The wood groans under pressure, nails resisting before finally giving way with a sharp crack that makes my shoulders tighten.
“Lark.”
“I’m not falling apart.”
“No,” Nolan agrees. “You’re just not here. I’m the one making sure it doesn’t fall apart,” he continues, his tone calm but pointed, “while you’re busy looking over your shoulder every five minutes.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because I don’t have anything solid to throw back at him. Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.
