“That’s me being generous.”
Her mouth twitches.
“There he is,” she says quietly.
I frown. “Who?”
“The one who almost smiles.”
The words hit low and strange.
Before I can answer, Mac comes over with the last of the paperwork in hand.
“Wright, you’re clear to transport. One of the volunteers is leaving the pickup for you to use. He’ll ride back with us,” he says. Then to Lark: “Your nerves are too rattled to drive. Let Holt take you. The marshal will want to speak with you in the morning. Don’t come back here alone before then.”
She nods. “I won’t.”
Mac studies her for a second longer, then looks at me. “Text me once you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walks off.
The scene around us starts to collapse inward. Hose packed. Equipment loaded. Light bars still throwing red andblue over wet grass and blackened wood. The kind of aftermath that feels almost peaceful if you don’t know what it cost to get there.
I take Lark’s duffel from her before she can argue and head toward the truck.
The dog trots at her side, then pauses to bark once at the wreck of the carriage house as if issuing a final warning.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That seems fair.”
She hears me. I know she does because I catch the sound of her laugh behind me. Brief. Unexpected. It follows me all the way to the passenger side door. And somewhere between the smoke still clinging to my clothes and the woman walking beside me in the red wash of emergency lights, I understand something I’d really rather not.
This whole night just shifted. The call. The station. The old inn at the edge of town. The woman who stepped into the road with my focus and walked away with part of it.
I don’t know what that means yet. I only know I’m already not as unaffected as I should be.
Chapter Four – Lark
The truck smells like smoke, and it clings to everything. It settles into the fabric beneath me, seeps into the seams of the seats, and lingers in the air between us, as if it has no intention of leaving. The scent is sharp in some places, dull in others, layered with something clean underneath it—soap, maybe, or whatever detergent he uses. It shouldn’t work together, but it does, and that bothers me more than it should.
I sit stiffly in the passenger seat, my hands resting in my lap, fingers curled against my palms as if holding them still will keep everything else from unraveling. The lights from the inn fade in the side mirror, along with a suspicious crowd. Red. Blue. White. They flash once more before disappearing completely, swallowed by the curve of the road and the distance we put between us and what almost became something worse.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I can still see it. The edge of flame catching against dry brush. The way the wind pushed it sideways instead of up. The moment everything shifted from manageable to dangerous.
My throat tightens. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, forcing the sensation down before it can turn into something I can’t control.
Temporary. That word settles in my mind again, sharper this time. This is temporary. This ride. This house. This… reliance.
I fix my gaze on the road ahead, watching the headlights stretch across asphalt that feels darker the farther we get from town. Holt drives without speaking. His hands stay steady on the wheel. His posture doesn’t shift. His focus doesn’t break. He moves through this moment the same way he moved throughthe fire—controlled, deliberate, as if every action has already been measured before he takes it.
It makes something in my stomach knot in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
“You always this quiet?” I ask.
The question slips out before I decide if I want to break the silence. His attention flicks to me for half a second, then back to the road.
“No.”
