Page 29 of At First Spark
The quiet that follows feels different. Heavier. I stand there for a long moment in his space. In a house that isn’t mine. In a situation I didn’t plan for and can’t control.
I sit on the edge of the bed slowly, my hands pressing into my thighs as I try to ground myself in something steady. The mattress dips beneath me. It smells like him. Smoke. Clean soap. Something deeper underneath it that I can’t quite place.
I close my eyes. Just for a second. And everything comes rushing in. The fire. The loss. The reality of what almost happened.
My dad should be here.
The thought hits harder than anything else. He should have seen the inn. Should have stood beside me in that doorway, his voice steady, his vision clear.
“This one’s worth saving, Birdie.”
My throat tightens. Rook shifts closer, pressing against my side. And somewhere down the hall, I hear it. The quiet creak of the couch as Holt settles onto it.
I lie back slowly, staring up at the ceiling.
Temporary.
I hold on to that word. Even as sleep pulls me under—and something deeper tells me this doesn’t feel temporary at all.
Chapter Five – Holt
The house settles, and I hear every single layer. After texting my boss to let him know that Lark was settling in, I did everything I could to erase the image of the gorgeously frustrating woman currently lying in my bed.
It starts with the wood beneath me, shifting slowly as the temperature changes, the movement traveling through the couch frame and into the floorboards. The pipes follow, a faint ticking behind the walls that sounds almost intentional, like something counting down. The hum of electricity fills in the rest, low and steady, threading through the quiet in a way that makes it impossible to forget the house is alive even when everything inside it is still.
Most nights, I don’t notice any of it. Tonight, it all feels louder.
I lie on the couch with my arm stretched along the back, staring at the ceiling long enough that the texture blurs. Sleep should come easy after a shift like that. It always has before. Physical exhaustion usually wins over everything else.
It doesn’t tonight. Every time I start to drift, something pulls me back. Awareness. Tension. The simple fact that someone is in my bed. Someone with deep brown eyes and lips that draw your attention with every word she speaks. And her hair? Those long, thick strands I could see wrapped around my wrist as I make her come alive.
I close my eyes for a second, then open them again just as quickly. That thought alone is enough to keep me awake. She doesn’t deserve me to think about her like this, not with what she’s gone through tonight. Unfortunately, my brain and cock didn’t get the message.
I shift, dragging a hand over my face, feeling the faint grit of smoke still clinging to my skin. I should have showered when I got home. Should have taken ten minutes to wash off the night, to reset before stepping back into this space.
I didn’t. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t think about much beyond getting her somewhere safe.
That realization settles deeper than I expect it to.
I turn my head toward the hallway. The door to my room is closed, the space between here and there stretching longer than it should. Everything is quiet. No movement. No sound.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear.
I push myself upright, the couch creaking softly beneath me, and swing my feet to the floor. The wood is cool under my feet as I stand, grounding in a way the couch hasn’t been.
Sleep isn’t coming. I don’t waste time pretending it might.
I move into the kitchen, flipping the faucet on and letting the cold water run over my hands before I drag it up over my face. The shock of it cuts through the lingering heat in my skin, clears just enough of the fog to make everything sharper.
I grab the towel and press it against my face, then my neck, letting it sit there for a second longer than necessary before dropping it back into place.
The window above the sink reflects a faint version of me—shadowed, tired, not quite settled. I don’t linger on it. I make quick work of stepping into my boots, then I step outside instead.
The air hits cooler, cleaner, carrying the scent of damp earth and grass that hasn’t been touched by smoke. It fills my lungs easier than the air inside, steadier.
I walk the property without thinking about it. Check the barn. Latch the gate. Follow the fence line until it disappears into the trees.
Routine settles something in me. Not completely. Not enough to erase the awareness that’s been sitting under my skin since I walked through that door.
