Page 30 of At First Spark
I stop at the fence and rest my forearms against the top rail, staring out over the field. The quiet should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like space. And space leaves room for thoughts I don’t want.
Silence made her anxious. Stillness made her restless. Every quiet moment had to be filled—with conversation, with reassurance, with something that kept everything from tipping too far in one direction or the other.
At first, I didn’t mind. Then it became constant. Then it became everything.
I learned to anticipate it. Learned to fill the silence before she could feel it. Learned to stay ahead of whatever spiral she might fall into next.
By the time I realized what it was doing to me, not much of me was left that didn’t revolve around her.
I straighten, pushing off the fence before the memory can settle any deeper. That’s not happening again. I head back toward the house with a prayer that my overworked mind can settle for a few hours.
The smell of coffee pulls me out of sleep. Not deep sleep. Not restful. But enough that my body loosened, enough that the sharp edge of everything dulled slightly.
I open my eyes slowly, taking in the room in pieces before everything clicks back into place. I sit up immediately, runninga hand through my hair before standing and heading toward the doorway.
And stop.
Lark stands at the counter with her back to me, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other braced lightly against the edge of the sink. Her hair is pulled up loosely, strands falling around her neck. The sweatshirt she wore last night hangs off one shoulder now, exposing skin that still carries a faint smudge of soot.
She looks like she didn’t sleep. I recognize it instantly. The tension. The stillness that isn’t rest.
Rook sits at her feet, watching her like she’s the only thing that matters in the room.
She shifts, and her eyes meet mine.
“You’re out of filters,” she says.
I blink once.
“That’s what you noticed first?”
“It was that or comment on the fact that my dog has already claimed your bed.”
“He’s not taking my bed.”
Her brow lifts.
“That’s not what he thinks.”
I glance down.
Rook doesn’t even look at me.
I exhale slowly.
“I’ll get more later.”
“For the coffee?”
“Yeah.”
She nods once.
“I tried.”
I step forward, closing the distance enough to reach the counter and the second mug set out just for me. I pour the coffee, take a sip, and accept immediately that it’s bad.
“It works,” I say.
