Page 98 of At First Spark
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if she’s showing up where she shouldn’t be,” Hadley says.
And suddenly, this isn’t just about us anymore.
Chapter Eighteen – Lark
The following morning, I stand at the kitchen sink longer than necessary, turning the same mug in my hands beneath the stream of warm water, watching it catch along the rim and spill over the edge in uneven sheets. The ceramic is already clean. It has been for a while now. I know that, logically. Still, I don’t set it down.
The repetition helps. The steadiness of it. The illusion that something can be rinsed clear if I just give it enough time.
Behind me, the house moves through its usual rhythm—cabinet doors opening and closing, the soft scrape of a chair shifting, the low hum of something cooking on the stove—but it all feels slightly out of sync, like I’m a half step behind everything that’s supposed to feel normal.
Because nothing does. Not after yesterday. Not after the way things shifted at the inn. Not after the way Holt looked at me like there wasn’t a single part of this he planned to walk away from.
Not after the way I didn’t want him to.
“You’re going to wear a hole through that cup.”
Holt’s voice cuts through the quiet.
I glance over my shoulder.
He stands at the stove, one hand braced lightly against the counter while the other moves through the pan with slow, practiced ease. Steam curls upward, catching in the morning light that spills through the window behind her, softening the edges of everything in the room.
There’s a plate already set on the counter beside him. I didn’t notice it when I walked in. Eggs. Toast. Something simple.
Waiting.
Like he made it without asking if I wanted it. Like he assumed I would. Like he hoped.
He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he gives me space to respond.
I shut off the water and set the mug down carefully.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says easily. “It’s a sturdy cup.”
The simplicity of it almost pulls a laugh out of me. Almost.
I lean back against the counter instead, crossing my arms loosely, letting the warmth of the room settle around me without quite letting it in.
Holt glances up, then his eyes find mine. I look away first, my gaze settling on the green scape through the window, toward the stretch of yard beyond where the grass catches the light. The barn stands solid and unchanged, like it hasn’t noticed anything different about the past few days.
I shift my weight slightly, uncrossing my arms, then crossing them again like I can’t decide what to do with them.
Through the reflection in the mirror, I watch as Holt turns back to the stove and flips something in the pan. The quiet that follows feels different from the silence at the inn.
Like I’m allowed to exist in it without having to explain myself.
After I take a ridiculously long shower, Holt is already gone. I can feel it before I fully register it.
There’s no truck in the driveway. No boots by the door. No low, steady presence moving through the house in thebackground like something constant I didn’t realize I’d started relying on.
I grab a bottle of water and step out onto the porch.
The air is crisper here, brushing against my skin in a way that feels grounding, pulling me back into something real. The sun sits higher now, light stretching across the yard in long, soft lines, catching on the fence, the barn, the uneven patches of grass where the ground dips slightly.
