Page 27 of At First Spark
Her attention goes straight to Holt first, her gaze moving over him quickly, efficiently, checking for injuries even if she doesn’t say the words out loud.
Then she looks at me. And something in her expression shifts. It softens, but not in a way that feels forced or performative. There’s no hesitation in it, no assessment.
Just recognition.
“Well,” she says gently, “you must be Lark.”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“I’m Claire.”
The way she says it makes it feel like both an introduction and a welcome.
“Come inside,” she adds. “You’re probably freezing. It’s the drop in adrenaline. That and the fact that my son insists on driving with the windows down unless there is a blizzard.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe that for a second.
“Of course you are,” she replies easily. “You can be fine and cold at the same time.”
I don’t argue. Mostly because I don’t have the energy. Holt moves past us, grabbing my bag from the back seat before I can reach for it.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“I can carry it.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t slow down and doesn’t look back. I follow them up the steps, my movements slower now that the adrenaline has faded and the weight of everything is settling in.
The door opens. Warmth spills out immediately, wrapping around me in a way that feels almost disorienting after the cold outside.
The house smells like something baked earlier. Something sweet, but not overwhelming. There’s coffee underneath it, faint but present, and the clean scent of fabric that’s been washed and dried and lived in.
It feels… lived in. Not staged. Not temporary. Real.
I hesitate just inside the doorway. Claire notices.
“Shoes are optional,” Holt calls out.
I slip mine off anyway. It feels like the right thing to do. Rook trots in behind me, his nails clicking softly against the floor before he pauses, taking everything in.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Claire says, already moving ahead. “I know this is Holt’s place, but we live right down the road. At the fork, make a right. And since he’s the baby of five, I like to check in on him every now and then.”
I follow her because I don’t know what else to do while she rambles on about her family. The kitchen opens up widerthan I expect, the space bright and warm, counters clean but not untouched, a dish towel draped over the sink like it was left there without thought.
Claire reaches for a mug.
“I made tea,” she says.
Of course she did.
I wrap my hands around it when she passes it to me, the heat seeping into my skin immediately.
“You don’t have to talk tonight,” she adds.
That catches me off guard.
