Chapter Nineteen – Holt
The station smells exactly the same as it always does.
Burnt coffee, stale fryer grease, and the lingering bite of smoke that never quite leaves, no matter how many times the floors are scrubbed or the windows are thrown open.
It settles into the walls, into the gear, into the seams of everything until it becomes part of the place itself. Most days, I don’t notice it.
Today, I do.
Maybe because it’s familiar. Maybe because it’s easier to focus on something constant than everything else shifting under the surface of my life right now.
My boots hit the concrete with a dull echo as I step inside, the sound carrying farther than it should in the quiet lull between calls.
My duffel lands on the bench near my locker with a soft thud, heavier than it needs to be.
I don’t unpack right away. I just stand there for a second, letting my shoulders settle, letting the routine sink in like it might push everything else out.
It doesn’t.
It just makes room for it.
“Look who finally decided to join us.”
Beckett’s voice cuts across the bay, loud enough to bounce off the high ceiling and draw attention from the far side of the room. I don’t bother looking at him yet. I know exactly what expression he’s wearing—too amused, too observant, already halfway into whatever joke he’s about to make.
“Shift started twenty minutes ago,” I say, bending to tug at my laces, loosening them enough to kick my boots off.
“Yet,” he continues, completely undeterred, “you still managed to make an entrance.”
I huff out a quiet breath, straightening as I reach for my locker.
The metal door creaks when I pull it open, the sound familiar, grounding.
Inside, everything is exactly where I left it—spare clothes folded tight, extra gloves shoved into the corner, a photograph taped just inside the door that I don’t look at anymore but haven’t taken down either.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, dragging my shirt over my head and tossing it toward the laundry bin.
Beckett steps closer anyway, mug in hand, the smell of over-brewed coffee hitting me before he does. “Oh, I’m definitely starting,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to mine like he’s settling in for a full conversation whether I like it or not. “You’ve been off all week.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking a slow sip like he’s savoring the moment more than the drink, “but not here.”
I pause for half a second. Just long enough for him to catch it.
His grin widens.
“Hadley mentioned her,” he adds, casual as anything. “Which means Bailey knows, which means Lila knows, which means…”
“The entire town,” I finish flatly, dragging a clean shirt over my head.
“Exactly,” he says, tapping the side of his mug like I just proved his point. “Small town, man. You know how this works.”
I do, that’s the problem. No version of this stays contained. No quiet corner where things can exist without being seen, talked about, or picked apart.
And Lark, she’s not built for that kind of scrutiny. Not when she’s already carrying more than she lets on.
“She needed a place to stay. You know this,” I say, closing my locker a little harder than necessary.
Beckett watches me for a beat.
“Mhm.”
“That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “You always this annoying, or did you wake up early for it today?”
He grins. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
That pulls a small laugh out of me before I can stop it.
Beckett catches it immediately, his expression shifting just enough that the teasing edges off and something more thoughtful slips in underneath.
“There he is,” he says quietly.
I frown. “Who?”
“That guy,” he replies, nodding toward me. “The one who doesn’t walk around like the weight of the world is strapped to his back.”
My jaw tightens slightly.
“That guy grew up.”
“Yeah,” Beckett says, pushing off the locker. “He did. Doesn’t mean he disappeared.”
The truth is, I know exactly what he’s talking about. The version of me that didn’t think too far ahead. That didn’t measure every decision against the worst possible outcome. That didn’t hesitate before stepping into something just because it might hurt when it ended.
That version…didn’t stay. Didn’t build anything. Didn’t let anyone get close enough to matter. And now I don’t know how to be that version again. Or if I should be.
A call comes in just before noon. The tone cuts through the station, sharp and immediate, snapping everything into motion without hesitation. Gear is grabbed, boots pulled on, and gloves shoved into place. Muscle memory takes over before thought has a chance to catch up.
By the time we’re in the truck, I’m already running through the checklist in my head.
Structure fire.
Residential.
Unknown occupants.
Potential spread.
Routine.
Except it doesn’t feel like it today.
The closer we get, the more awareness crawls up the back of my neck—not panic, not fear, just the unmistakable feeling that something isn’t right.
The smell hits before we even step out. Smoke, thick and bitter, curls through the air in uneven waves.
It’s contained mostly to the kitchen by the time we arrive, flames knocked down by a neighbor with a hose and a lot of luck, but the damage is still there.
Blackened cabinets. Warped drywall. Heat lingering in the bones of the structure like it hasn’t decided to leave yet.
I move through it automatically, checking for hotspots, clearing debris, and scanning for anything that might reignite. But my mind—It’s not fully here.
Every curl of smoke reminds me of the inn. Every scorched edge pulls me back to that patch of dried brush, to the way the fire started, to how quickly it could’ve spread if it hadn’t been caught when it was.
To Lark, standing in the middle of it like she refused to let it take anything else from her.
“Wright.”
Mac’s voice cuts through the haze. I look up. He stands a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing.
“You with us?”
“Yeah,” I answer immediately.
He holds my eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing the truth of that answer, then he nods once.
“Stay that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Back at the station, the adrenaline fades slower than it should. Leaves something restless in its place.
I stand at the sink longer than necessary, scrubbing at my hands even after the soot is gone, watching the dark water spiral down the drain like it takes the edge of the call with it.
“You’re going to take your skin off if you keep doing that.”
I glance up. Ray leans against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that way he’s perfected over the years.
“I’m fine,” I say, shutting off the water.
He nods slowly, like he hears the words but doesn’t put much weight behind them.
“You thinking about that fire at the inn?”
I grab a towel, drying my hands with more force than necessary.
“Yeah.”
“You think it was accidental?”
The question hangs between us. And not nearly as easy to answer as it should be.
“That’s what it looks like,” I say.
Ray doesn’t move.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I meet his gaze. Hold it.
“No,” I say finally. “I don’t.”
Silence stretches.
“Then you figure out why,” he says.
“I am.”
“Good.”
He pushes off the doorway, turning to leave, then pauses.
“And Wright?”
“Yeah.”
“If it ties back to you in any way,” he says, “you don’t handle it alone.”
I nod once.
“I know.”
Kenzie, a non-serious fling from my past, is the last person I expect to see when I step outside. And somehow—the least surprising.
She leans against her car like she belongs there, one ankle crossed over the other, posture loose but deliberate. Her hair is darker than the last time I saw her, cut shorter around her shoulders, framing a face I remember better than I’d like.
“Hey, stranger.”
I stop a few feet away, not closing the distance.
“Kenzie.”
She straightens slowly, pushing off the car and stepping toward me like she’s testing how far she can go before I stop her.
“You look good,” she says, eyes flicking over me in a way that feels more like assessment than compliment. “Different. But good.”
“People change.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Do they?”
I don’t answer. Don’t engage.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.
She shrugs one shoulder, casual. “Passing through.”
“Try again.”
That gets a small laugh out of her.
“Still direct,” she says. “I missed that.”
“We weren’t anything worth missing.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. Her smile flickers, just for a second, then it’s back.
“I heard you’ve been busy,” she says, ignoring the edge in my tone. “Helping out around town. Playing house out at the farm.”
My jaw tightens.
“That your business now?”
“Small town,” she says lightly. “Everything’s everyone’s business.”
Yeah. I know.
“What do you want, Kenzie?”
This time, I don’t soften it. Her gaze holds mine longer.
“I wanted to see if it was true,” she says.
“And?”
“Looks like it is.”
Something about the way she says it doesn’t sit right. Like there’s more behind it than curiosity, more than idle interest.
“I have work,” I say, stepping back.
“Of course you do,” she replies, turning toward her car. “You always did know how to stay busy.”
I don’t respond. I just watch her leave, and even after her car disappears down the road, that uneasy feeling lingers longer than it should.
That’s what I don’t like. Not the fact that she showed up.
Not even the way she looked at me like she was trying to figure something out.
It’s the timing, the coincidence of it. The way everything else already feels like it’s shifting just beneath the surface, and then she walks back into it like she belongs there, like she never really left.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, exhaling slowly as I push off the side of the truck. This is nothing. It has to be.
Kenzie was never—