Lark

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Six years later, the inn still wakes up before I do.

It’s subtle now, something I only notice when I let myself slow down long enough to pay attention. The soft shift of old wood as the morning air moves through open windows, the distant creak of the porch swing catching the breeze, the quiet hum of life settling into place before the day fully begins.

It doesn’t feel fragile anymore. It hasn’t in a long time. But it still feels… alive.

I lie there for a second longer than I should, staring up at the ceiling of the room I claimed as mine years ago, now layered with everything that’s come after. The early light filters in through the curtains, soft and warm, carrying the faint smell of coffee and something sweet drifting up from the kitchen below.

Which means...

“He’s already up,” I murmur.

“Always is.”

Holt’s voice comes from behind me, rough with sleep and entirely too close for someone who’s apparently been awake long enough to start the day.

I roll onto my side, squinting at him. “You’re supposed to be downstairs.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” I say, pushing at his shoulder lightly. “You’re the responsible one.”

His mouth curves, slow and familiar. “That’s a dangerous label.”

“You earned it.”

“Did I,” he asks, reaching out to catch my wrist before I can pull away, tugging me closer instead of letting me escape. “Or did you just decide I needed to be.”

I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is—both. He shifted. Grew. But I did too. And somewhere in the middle of that, we met in a place that actually worked.

“I think you like it,” I say finally.

“Being responsible?”

“Being needed.”

His gaze softens just slightly, something quieter settling in behind it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

The honesty still catches me sometimes. Not because it’s surprising. Because it’s consistent. Six years in, and he still says exactly what he means.

I lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth before pulling back again, already moving.

“If you don’t get downstairs, your mother is going to assume something is wrong and take over breakfast.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He sighs like he’s been deeply burdened, then pushes himself up anyway, dragging a hand through his hair as he stands. The movement pulls his shirt just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the faint scar along his shoulder—lighter now, faded but still there. Still a reminder. Still something that never quite disappears. He catches me looking. My gaze doesn’t shift. Neither does his.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question is quiet. Careful. Even now. Even after everything.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

Because I am. Because we are. Because what used to feel like something we survived now feels like something that shaped us into this. Into here. Into now.

The inn is already full when we make it downstairs. Of course it is. Summer in Coral Bell Cove doesn’t allow for slow mornings, not when every room is booked and Bailey has convinced half the town that our breakfast is “the best thing to happen to a Sunday since coffee.”

“She’s not wrong,” Holt mutters under his breath as we step into the kitchen.

“She’s biased.”

“She’s correct.”

I roll my eyes but smile anyway.

Claire is already at the stove. Because of course she is. She doesn’t technically work here. But she also absolutely does.

“You’re late,” she says without turning around.

“It’s barely eight,” I reply.

“That’s late.”

Holt leans down, kissing her cheek as he passes. “Morning, Mom.”

She softens immediately. Not that she’ll admit it.

“Go check the back porch,” she tells him. “Table three needs more coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watch him go for a second. The way he moves through the space. Confident. Comfortable. Like this is just as much his as it is mine. And maybe that’s the biggest change of all. Not that I stayed. That we built something worth sharing.

“You’re staring,” Claire says.

I blink, turning back to her. “I’m not.”

She gives me a look. The kind that says she knows exactly what I’m doing and why.

“You did good,” she says simply.

The words land deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

Not because I needed validation because I know she doesn’t give it lightly.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

“I did.”

The porch fills quickly. Guests. Locals. A mix of people who came here on purpose and people who somehow always end up here without meaning to.

Hadley arrives mid-morning, sunglasses on, energy loud as ever.

“There’s a line,” she announces, like this is shocking information.

“That tends to happen,” I say.

“It’s inconvenient.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“I work everywhere,” she counters.

Nolan follows her a minute later, slower, steadier, carrying a crate of fresh produce like he’s been doing it his entire life.

Which—at this point—He kind of has.

They don’t stand close. Not at first. But they don’t stand far either. And when Hadley takes the crate from him without asking and brushes his hand in the process—neither of them pulls away too quickly.

I catch Holt’s eye from across the porch. He sees it too. Of course he does.

“Not our problem,” he mouths.

I smile.

“Not yet.”

By afternoon, the inn settles into its rhythm. Guests filter out. The porch quiets. The heat presses in just enough to slow everything down.

I take a break in the front hall, leaning against the same wall I once stared at like it might collapse if I looked away for too long. It didn’t. I didn’t.

And now—there’s laughter upstairs.

Footsteps on the porch. The distant sound of Holt’s voice carrying through an open window. It’s not quiet anymore. Not in the way it used to be. It’s full. I step outside, moving toward the edge of the property without thinking, drawn by something familiar. The barn stands there. Not the original. Not the one we lost.

But the one we built after. Stronger. Cleaner. Still used. Still lived in. Still ours. Holt is already there.

Leaning against the fence, watching something in the distance I don’t immediately see.

“You disappear a lot,” I say as I approach.

“You always find me.”

“Always.”

I step up beside him, following his gaze. A group of kids runs across the far edge of the field, their laughter carrying on the wind. One of them trips. Pops back up. Keeps going.

I smile.

“That used to be you,” I say.

“Still is,” he mutters.

I bump my shoulder into his lightly.

“Less falling down.”

“Debatable.”

We fall into easy silence after that. The kind that doesn’t need filling. The kind that feels like home. After a minute, he reaches for my hand. Still does that. Still like it matters. Because it does.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s new. Because it isn’t. Because we’ve asked it before. Answered it before. But something about now—about this moment—makes it land differently.

I look around.

At the inn.

At the barn.

At the life we built piece by piece.

At the people who filled it in.

At him.

“No,” I say.

Not hesitation. Not doubt. Just truth.

“Not anymore.”

His grip tightens slightly.

“Good.”

I glance at him. “You?”

He shakes his head.

“Never did.”

I smile.

“That’s not true.”

“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe once.”

“And now?”

His gaze meets mine, steady in the way that still grounds me every single time.

“Now I know what I’d be leaving.”

The words settle deep.

Not heavy.

Just—right.

I lean into him, resting my head briefly against his shoulder, the familiar rise and fall of his breathing anchoring me in the moment.

In the now.

In everything that came after the fire.

After the fear.

After the choice.

“This,” I say softly. “This is what staying looks like.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He doesn’t have to.

Because I feel it in the way his arm comes around me.

In the way he holds me there.

In the way neither of us moves to leave.

And for the first time—

Not just since I got here.

But maybe ever—

I know exactly where I belong.