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.
I stop at the fence and rest my forearms against the top rail, staring out over the field. The quiet should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like space. And space leaves room for thoughts I don’t want.
Silence made her anxious. Stillness made her restless. Every quiet moment had to be filled—with conversation, with reassurance, with something that kept everything from tipping too far in one direction or the other.
At first, I didn’t mind. Then it became constant. Then it became everything.
I learned to anticipate it. Learned to fill the silence before she could feel it. Learned to stay ahead of whatever spiral she might fall into next.
By the time I realized what it was doing to me, not much of me was left that didn’t revolve around her.
I straighten, pushing off the fence before the memory can settle any deeper. That’s not happening again. I head back toward the house with a prayer that my overworked mind can settle for a few hours.
The smell of coffee pulls me out of sleep. Not deep sleep. Not restful. But enough that my body loosened, enough that the sharp edge of everything dulled slightly.
I open my eyes slowly, taking in the room in pieces before everything clicks back into place. I sit up immediately, running a hand through my hair before standing and heading toward the doorway.
And stop.
Lark stands at the counter with her back to me, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other braced lightly against the edge of the sink.
Her hair is pulled up loosely, strands falling around her neck.
The sweatshirt she wore last night hangs off one shoulder now, exposing skin that still carries a faint smudge of soot.
She looks like she didn’t sleep. I recognize it instantly. The tension. The stillness that isn’t rest.
Rook sits at her feet, watching her like she’s the only thing that matters in the room.
She shifts, and her eyes meet mine.
“You’re out of filters,” she says.
I blink once.
“That’s what you noticed first?”
“It was that or comment on the fact that my dog has already claimed your bed.”
“He’s not taking my bed.”
Her brow lifts.
“That’s not what he thinks.”
I glance down.
Rook doesn’t even look at me.
I exhale slowly.
“I’ll get more later.”
“For the coffee?”
“Yeah.”
She nods once.
“I tried.”
I step forward, closing the distance enough to reach the counter and the second mug set out just for me. I pour the coffee, take a sip, and accept immediately that it’s bad.
“It works,” I say.
“It doesn’t.”
“It’s caffeine.”
She watches me, then her expression shifts.
“You didn’t sleep.”
I lean back against the counter. “You?”
“Eventually.”
I nod once.
Rook breaks the silence. He shifts, stands, then noses his way between us like he’s testing the space, testing the air, testing us.
I freeze. Lark stills too. Rook looks up at me first, cautious, uncertain, then back at her like he’s deciding something.
I lower my hand slowly. He watches it. Sniffs once. Twice. Then leans forward just enough that his nose brushes my knuckles.
I don’t move. Don’t push. Don’t rush it.
He exhales, then steps back again, settling at Lark’s feet like that interaction was enough for now.
“Progress,” she murmurs.
“Sure.”
“It counts.”
I nod once, then glance at the stove.
“You eat?”
She hesitates, then shrugs.
“Not really.”
I push off the counter.
“You are.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know.”
I move anyway. Pull a pan from the cabinet. Crack eggs into it. Simple. Routine. Controlled.
The smell fills the kitchen slowly, warmer than the coffee, grounding in a way the rest of the morning hasn’t been.
She watches. I feel it without looking.
“You do this often?” she asks.
“Eat?”
“Cook.”
“When I have to.”
She hums softly. I slide the eggs onto two plates, then set one in front of her. She stares at it, then at me.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“I know.”
A beat.
Then she sits. Takes the fork. Eats.
Quiet settles again, but it feels different now. Less sharp. Less fragile.
Rook inches closer to me this time, his attention shifting between us as if he’s recalibrating.
I crouch slightly, holding a small piece of egg out. He hesitates, then takes it.
Carefully. Slowly.
I straighten. Lark watches the entire exchange like it matters more than breakfast.
“You’re winning him over,” she says.
“I’m feeding him.”
“Same thing.”
The rest of breakfast is eaten in companionable silence, and with a glance at the clock on the wall, the one my mother put up in the hopes that I’d start showing up to family dinner on time, I figure I might as well get a start on the day.
Gathering our dishes, I make quick work with the soap and water. I finish rinsing the plate, set it into the rack, then dry my hands slowly before I turn.
Lark stands near the edge of the kitchen, her arms loosely crossed, her weight shifted onto one hip like she’s trying to look casual and not quite succeeding.
Her gaze moves over the space, taking in details that most people wouldn’t notice—the line of the cabinets, the worn edge of the table, the faint scuff marks along the floor where boots have tracked in more than they should.
“You keep it clean,” she says.
I shrug.
“Habit.”
Her mouth curves slightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“It feels… lived in,” she adds.
I glance around, seeing the space the way she might—boots by the door, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair, tools stacked neatly along the wall where I left them yesterday.
“It is,” I say.
She nods once, then shifts her attention toward the hallway.
“I should probably—” She gestures vaguely. “—get cleaned up.”
My gaze follows the motion without thinking. Toward the door. Toward my room. The awareness hits instantly, sharp and unavoidable.
I clear my throat and push off the counter.
“Towels are in the bathroom. Cabinet above the sink.”
She nods again.
“Thanks.”
She hesitates, just for a second, then she turns and walks down the hall.
I stand there longer than I should. Listening. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Then—water.
The shower turns on, the pipes shifting behind the walls as the sound settles into a steady rhythm. I exhale slowly and drag a hand down the back of my neck.
This is normal. Temporary. Nothing complicated about it. I repeat that in my head like it means something, but just end up giving myself a headache.
Rook watches the hallway like it’s a problem he hasn’t figured out yet. He sits near the doorway, ears perked, head tilted slightly as if he’s trying to understand where she went and why he can’t follow.
“She’ll be back,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me.
I grab a rag from the counter and start wiping down the surfaces that don’t need it, moving through the kitchen with more intention than necessary. The motion helps. Keeps my hands busy, keeps my focus on something that doesn’t require me to think too hard.
I move into the living room, straightening things that are already straight, adjusting the blanket on the couch, aligning the edge of the coffee table like I haven’t done it a hundred times before.
The shower cuts off, and I freeze. Just for a second. Then force myself to keep moving.
The door opens a minute later. Soft. Careful. I don’t turn right away, but I know she’s there. I can feel it.
“Hey,” she says.
I turn and forget what I was about to say.
She changed and now sports one of my department's long-sleeve T-shirts, which I keep neatly folded in my dresser.
It hangs loose on her, the fabric falling past her hips, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose her wrists. Her hair is damp, pulled back loosely, a few strands clinging to the side of her neck.
There’s still a faint shadow of soot along her collarbone, something that didn’t wash away completely. Something that makes my heart seize for reasons I don’t want to examine.
“I didn’t have anything else,” she says, like she can read the thought before I say it.
“It’s fine.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. She watches me.
“Your bathroom needs a new faucet handle,” she says.
I blink.
“That’s what you took from that?”
“It leaks.”
I exhale through my nose.
“I’ll fix it.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“You say that like you haven’t already noticed it.”
“I’ve noticed it.”
“And?”
“I haven’t fixed it.”
Her mouth curves again, a little more this time.
“That… tracks.”
I shake my head and move past her, grabbing a clean shirt from the back of the chair and pulling it on as I head toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Outside.”
The sun has lifted higher now, casting light across the field in long, clean lines. The air carries warmth beneath the cool, the kind that promises a better day even if it hasn’t fully arrived yet.
I grab the hose. Start with the plants along the side of the house. Lark lingers near the porch at first, watching, taking everything in with a focus that feels too intentional to be casual.
“You don’t stop, do you?” she asks.
“Doing what?”
“Moving.”
I glance at her, then back at the plants.
“No.”
She nods like she expected that answer.
Rook sticks close to her at first, then ventures out into the yard, his movements cautious but curious, testing the space the same way he tested me earlier.
He chases a leaf. Stops. Looks back. Returns.
It’s slow, but it’s something.
I finish watering, shut the hose off, and coil it back into place.
“We should go,” I say.
“To the inn even though you were told to wait for the marshal?”
She nods. And just like that— the quiet moment ends. The tension returns. And everything between us tightens again.