Page 46 of At First Spark
“I have my SUV.”
“And I have a truck that can actually carry what we need.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because it makes more sense.”
The answer is easy, which makes me push harder.
“I don’t need you to make things easier.”
His gaze holds mine. Steady.
“You don’t,” he agrees. “But I’m going to anyway.”
Something in my stomach flutters, and I look away first.
“Fine,” I say.
But it doesn’t feel like giving in. It feels like choosing not to fight something I don’t yet fully understand.
We clean up quickly after that. No lingering. No extra conversation. Distance held carefully in place.
The drive back to the inn is quieter than it should be, like something followed us out of the house and settled into the space between us without asking permission. Gravel shifts under the tires as we pull in, the sound louder than usual in the stillness, and I find myself watching the building before I even reach for the door handle.
The Carrington Inn stands exactly where I left it. Unchanged. And somehow—not.
Smoke no longer clings to the siding the way it did the other night, but I can still see it if I look closely enough. In the warped trim along the back corner. In the faint discoloration near the windows. In the way the structure holds itself a little too rigid, like it knows how close it came to losing something it wouldn’t get back.
I step out of the truck before Holt can come around to my side, my boots hitting the ground with more purpose than I feel, my hand already reaching for my bag like momentum alone will carry me through whatever this day turns into.
The porch steps creak under my weight as I climb them, the wood soft in places, uneven in others, each flaw moreobvious now that I’ve seen what’s underneath it. I don’t pause at the door. Don’t give myself time to take it in all over again. If I do—I’ll hesitate. And hesitation feels dangerous here.
Behind me, I hear Holt’s boots hit the steps, slower, heavier, more measured. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just follows, steady and present in a way that makes it harder to pretend I’m doing this alone.
I push the door open. Step inside. The inn doesn’t feel smaller when we step back inside. It feels sharper. Like every flaw has been outlined overnight, every weakness made easier to see now that I know exactly where the fire started, exactly how close it came to taking something bigger with it.
I move through the front hall without slowing, setting my bag down near the base of the stairs, flipping open my notebook before the door fully shuts behind us.
“We start with the back hall,” I say, already moving.
Holt doesn’t argue. He follows. That’s becoming a pattern I don’t quite understand yet. Not agreement. Not obedience. Something more deliberate.
He lets me lead. But he doesn’t let me do it alone. The difference matters more than I want it to.
I set my notebook down on a narrow table that somehow survived everything and crouch near the section of wall I marked yesterday, pressing my palm lightly against the wood.
I shift, reaching for the pry bar Holt hands me without comment. Our fingers brush. It’s quick. Accidental. Still enough to send a small, sharp awareness up my arm that I ignore with more force than necessary.
“Here,” he says, nodding toward the seam near the baseboard.
“I see it.”
“I know you do.”
