Chapter Thirty-two – Lark
The quiet after the fire feels wrong. By the time we get back to Holt’s house, the adrenaline has burned off into something heavier.
Exhaustion settles in behind it, dragging at my limbs, at my thoughts, at the edges of everything that felt sharp and immediate just an hour ago.
My clothes still smell like smoke, the scent clinging to my skin, my hair, the back of my throat in a way I don’t think will wash out easily.
Holt moves slower now. Not in a way anyone else would notice, but I do.
The way his shoulders hold tension just a fraction too tight. The way he favors one side when he reaches for the door. The controlled way he breathes, like he’s measuring every inhale instead of letting it come naturally.
“You need to sit,” I say the second the door closes behind us.
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh if it didn’t carry so much strain. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay.”
We stand there for a second, the same argument we’ve had before hovering just under the surface. But this time, it feels different.
I don’t wait for him to push back again. I move past him, grabbing the first-aid kit from the cabinet and setting it down on the kitchen counter with more force than necessary. The sound cuts through the quiet, grounding me just enough to focus on something concrete.
“Sit,” I repeat, softer this time.
He watches me for a second, something unreadable moving through his expression before he finally gives in. Not fully, not easily—but enough. He lowers himself onto the stool, bracing his forearms against the counter as I step between him and the sink.
Up close, the damage is clearer.
The tear in his shirt. The angry red along his shoulder. The way the skin is already starting to darken where the beam caught him.
My stomach sinks.
“You should’ve let it go,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His gaze flicks up to mine. “You were in there.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
The certainty in his voice cuts off whatever argument I was about to make.
I press my lips together and reach for the antiseptic, focusing on the motion instead of the weight behind it. When I touch his shoulder, he flinches slightly, just enough to tell me it hurts more than he’s letting on.
“Sorry,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head once. “Don’t.”
I clean the wound slowly, taking my time even though my hands want to move faster, want to fix it, want to erase what happened entirely. But healing doesn’t work like that.
Nothing does.
“You scared me,” I admit after a moment.
The words feel bigger than they should. He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is lower.
“Yeah.”
I finish wrapping his shoulder, the clean bandage stark against his skin, and step back just enough to look at him properly. The kitchen light catches in his eyes, pulling out something softer beneath the exhaustion, something steadier than what we’ve been dealing with all day.
“We lost the barn,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I intend, and Holt nods once.
“I know. It’s just a barn.”
The simplicity of it makes my chest ache.
“I’m sorry anyway,” I add.
He exhales slowly, looking past me for a second before his gaze comes back.
“It’s not on you.”
“I was there.”
“So was I.”
“That doesn’t—”
“It doesn’t change anything,” he cuts in gently. “This was coming either way.”
The certainty in his tone tells me he believes that. I don’t know if I do, but I don’t argue.
The silence that follows stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel strained. It feels… full. Like there’s too much in it to fit into words right now.
Rook shifts at our feet, pressing closer, his body still keyed up in a way that mirrors my own. I reach down absently, running my fingers through his fur, grounding myself in his simple, steady presence.
“We need to talk about what happens next,” I say finally.
Holt’s expression shifts slightly, something more guarded settling into place.
“Okay.”
I take a breath, then let it out slowly. This is the part I’ve been avoiding.
“I can’t keep pretending this isn’t affecting everything,” I say. “The inn. My work. My—” I hesitate, then force myself to finish. “My life.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, waiting.
“That doesn’t mean I’m leaving,” I add quickly.
Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction.
“But it does mean I need to figure out how to stay without losing everything I came here for.”
Holt leans back slightly, considering my truth, his gaze steady in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
“You’re not going to lose it,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he admits. “But I know you.”
The part I don’t fully trust yet.
“I didn’t come here to be part of something like this,” I say, gesturing loosely between us, the house, and the chaos of everything that’s unfolded. “I came here to build something of my own.”
“And you are.”
His answer comes without hesitation.
“Not like this.”
“Maybe not how you planned,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t make it wrong.”
I shake my head slightly. “It makes it complicated.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
The honesty in that settles something again. I look at him for a long second, taking in the exhaustion in his face, the steadiness underneath it, the way he’s been holding everything together even when it’s clearly costing him more than he lets on.
And something shifts.
“I’m not leaving,” I say again, quieter this time.
“I know.”
His voice is just as quiet, but confident.
“But I’m also not disappearing into your life like it’s easier than dealing with mine,” I continue. “I need both.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“Then we figure out how to make that work.”
The simplicity of it catches me off guard.
“You make that sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he says. “But it’s possible.”
I search his face for a second, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that tells me he’s saying what I want to hear instead of what he actually believes. I don’t find it. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all because it makes me want to believe him.
I step closer without fully deciding to. He doesn’t move. But the space between us shifts anyway, narrowing in a way that feels inevitable now.
“I almost lost you tonight,” I say softly.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“But you didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
His gaze meets mine fully.
“What is?”
I swallow.
“The point is… I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think about the inn. Or my plans. Or any of the reasons I shouldn’t be here,” I continue. “I just—”
My voice falters for half a second. This is the part that matters. The part I can’t take back once I say it.
“I chose you.”
The words hit softer than I expected, but they don’t feel fragile. They feel… certain.
His expression shifts, just slightly, but it’s enough. Enough to see something break through the control he’s been holding on to since the fire.
“I keep trying to tell myself it’s just timing,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “Or circumstance. Or everything happening too fast to make sense of it.”
I shake my head.
“But it’s not.”
The truth settles deeper with every word.
“It’s you.”
Silence falls between us again.
“I’m in this because of you,” I say, holding his gaze now, not looking away. “And I don’t think I know how to step back from that anymore.”
For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His hand comes up, slower this time, more deliberate than it’s ever been before, like he’s making a choice just as much as I am.
“You don’t have to,” he says quietly.
My breath catches slightly. His thumb brushes lightly along my jaw, grounding, steady, careful in a way that feels like the opposite of everything we just came out of.
“I’ve been there longer than I should’ve been,” he adds, his voice lower now. “I just didn’t say it out loud.”
A knot of anxiety forms in my chest.
“You don’t have to make it less than it is,” he continues. “Or explain it away so it makes more sense.”
His gaze holds mine.
“I’m in love with you, Lark. And you love me,” he says.
Not a question. Not an assumption. The words don’t scare me the way they should.
“I do,” I say.
No doubts in my mind.
“And I’m not asking you to choose between your life and me,” he says. “I’m asking you to let me be part of it.”
The simplicity of that breaks something open in the best way. I close the distance fully this time.
“And you are,” I tell him softly. “You already are.”