Page 86 of At First Spark
Damn him. He’s not wrong. And I hate that he’s not wrong.
My breath steadies slightly, but the tension doesn’t fade. It lingers between us, heavier now, charged in a different way.
“Or something you can’t,” I counter.
His gaze narrows at that. For a second, I think he might ignore it.
Push anyway.
Instead, his hands settle more firmly at my waist, grounding, steady.
“I don’t start something I’m not willing to finish,” he says quietly.
A beat.
“This isn’t something I rush.”
The air shifts again. Not less intense. Just… deeper.
More dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with what almost happened—and everything to do with what will.
Because now I know.
When Holt decides to take that next step—there won’t be anything halfway about it.
Chapter Fifteen – Lark
The house feels different in the morning. Like something settled overnight and hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, tracking the faint cracks in the paint like I didn’t memorize them the first night I stayed here. Light filters in through the window in soft, uneven lines, catching on the edge of the dresser, the floorboards, the shape of Rook curled at the end of the bed.
Nothing about the room has changed, but everything about it feels foreign.
My mouth still remembers him. That’s the problem. Not in a way that’s overwhelming or dramatic. Not something I can brush off as a mistake or a moment that got away from us. It lingers in smaller places than that. In the quiet between breaths. In the way my body feels just slightly more aware than it should be.
In the way I didn’t stop it and didn’t want to.
I push myself upright before that thought can settle any deeper. Rook lifts his head, watching me like he’s been waiting for me to catch up to something he already understands.
“We’re getting up,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move right away, then he stretches slowly, deliberately, like he’s making a point before hopping off the bed and heading toward the door. I follow because staying still feels worse.
The kitchen is already alive. Coffee brewing. Cabinet doors opening and closing.
The soft scrape of a chair shifting across the floor. Except there is a familiar giggle instead of the grunts I’m used to from Holt.
Hadley.
She’s leaning against the counter when I step in, one hip hooked against the edge, mug in hand, phone balanced loosely between her fingers like she’s been scrolling and not actually reading anything for the last ten minutes.
Her gaze lifts immediately, locks onto me, and just stays there. A beat too long. A bit too deliberate.
“Well,” she says.
That’s it, just that one word, but it hits like a question anyway.
I move toward the coffee pot, grabbing a mug without responding, letting the familiar motion carry me through something simple.
