Page 63 of At First Spark
“For what?” Lark asks.
“For me.”
The answer is quiet.
Too quiet.
Lark doesn’t hesitate.
“I don’t wait well. And if I remember correctly, you told me to forget this place or at least wait until your current project was up.”
Something low and immediate settles under my ribs at that, something that feels a lot like recognition and something else I don’t want to name yet.
“No,” I say, before I can stop myself. “She doesn’t.”
Lark’s eyes flick to mine before returning to her friend. The three of us stand there for a second, the morning stretching out around us, quiet and still and holding too much in it.
Then Lark turns toward the door.
“We should get started,” she says.
And just like that, the moment breaks.
Inside, the air still carries the faint scent of smoke, though it’s lighter now, dulled by the work we’ve already done and the fresh air we forced through the place yesterday. Dust catches the sunlight filtering through the windows, drifting slowly and visibly in the space between beams and broken plaster.
Lark moves through it like she’s already halfway focused on the next step. She sets her bag down, flips open her notebook, and starts talking through what needs to happen next without looking at either of us.
“We finish clearing the hall today,” she says. “Then I want to check the subflooring near the stairs before we move forward.”
Nolan nods once. “I’ll take the structural side.”
“I’ve got it,” she says.
His mouth tightens just slightly.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
I watch that exchange and file it away. This isn’t new for them; this push and pull; this quiet challenge layered under professional language.
“Split it,” I say. They both look at me. “We’ll get through it faster.”
A beat passes, then Lark nods.
“Fine.”
Nolan does the same. And just like that, we fall into motion.
Work fills the next few hours. The kind that seeps into your muscles and stays there, steady and repetitive, the rhythm of pulling boards, clearing debris, checking what’s salvageable and what isn’t. I move between rooms without thinking about it, carrying sections of wood out to the growing pile near the back, hauling tools in, keeping my hands busy so my head doesn’t stay on the way Nolan watches her when she’s not looking.
He notices everything. So do I. That’s the problem.
Lark kneels near the base of the stairs again, working at a section that’s been giving her trouble since we started.
“You’re going to crack it,” Nolan says from behind her.
“I won’t.”
“You’re forcing it.”
