Page 103 of At First Spark
“Do what?”
“Decide how this ends before it gets started.”
The realization hits low and deep, stealing the air from my lungs for half a second. Because I have been doing that. Bracing for the ending before I ever let myself want the middle. And something in me changes after that, enough that I don’t step back.
Chapter Nineteen – Holt
The station smells exactly the same as it always does.
Burnt coffee, stale fryer grease, and the lingering bite of smoke that never quite leaves, no matter how many times the floors are scrubbed or the windows are thrown open. It settles into the walls, into the gear, into the seams of everything until it becomes part of the place itself. Most days, I don’t notice it.
Today, I do.
Maybe because it’s familiar. Maybe because it’s easier to focus on something constant than everything else shifting under the surface of my life right now.
My boots hit the concrete with a dull echo as I step inside, the sound carrying farther than it should in the quiet lull between calls. My duffel lands on the bench near my locker with a soft thud, heavier than it needs to be. I don’t unpack right away. I just stand there for a second, letting my shoulders settle, letting the routine sink in like it might push everything else out.
It doesn’t.
It just makes room for it.
“Look who finally decided to join us.”
Beckett’s voice cuts across the bay, loud enough to bounce off the high ceiling and draw attention from the far side of the room. I don’t bother looking at him yet. I know exactly what expression he’s wearing—too amused, too observant, already halfway into whatever joke he’s about to make.
“Shift started twenty minutes ago,” I say, bending to tug at my laces, loosening them enough to kick my boots off.
“Yet,” he continues, completely undeterred, “you still managed to make an entrance.”
I huff out a quiet breath, straightening as I reach for my locker. The metal door creaks when I pull it open, the sound familiar, grounding. Inside, everything is exactly where I left it—spare clothes folded tight, extra gloves shoved into the corner, a photograph taped just inside the door that I don’t look at anymore but haven’t taken down either.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, dragging my shirt over my head and tossing it toward the laundry bin.
Beckett steps closer anyway, mug in hand, the smell of over-brewed coffee hitting me before he does. “Oh, I’m definitely starting,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to mine like he’s settling in for a full conversation whether I like it or not. “You’ve been off all week.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking a slow sip like he’s savoring the moment more than the drink, “but not here.”
I pause for half a second. Just long enough for him to catch it.
His grin widens.
“Hadley mentioned her,” he adds, casual as anything. “Which means Bailey knows, which means Lila knows, which means…”
“The entire town,” I finish flatly, dragging a clean shirt over my head.
“Exactly,” he says, tapping the side of his mug like I just proved his point. “Small town, man. You know how this works.”
I do, that’s the problem. No version of this stays contained. No quiet corner where things can exist without being seen, talked about, or picked apart.
And Lark, she’s not built for that kind of scrutiny. Not when she’s already carrying more than she lets on.
“She needed a place to stay. You know this,” I say, closing my locker a little harder than necessary.
Beckett watches me for a beat.
“Mhm.”
