Page 16 of The Flames Between Us

He starts to slide out of the booth, then pauses. "The techniques you showed me yesterday? They're helping. Wanted you to know that."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Crawford!" Lou calls from behind the counter. "Your order's up!"

Ollis gives me a final nod before returning to his colleagues, who immediately lean in with what I imagine are questions about our interaction. I watch as he deflects them with a good-natured shrug, saying something that makes both men laugh.

I turn my attention to my pancakes, forcing myself to focus on the food rather than continuing to watch him across the diner. The blueberry pancakes are indeed perfect—fluffy, bursting with fruit, drizzled with real maple syrup—but I barely taste them. My mind is too busy analyzing our brief interaction, searching for any missteps in my professional boundaries.

Was my response too familiar? Did I maintain appropriate eye contact without crossing into flirtation? Did my body language convey the right balance of friendly acknowledgment and professional distance?

I'm so absorbed in this post-mortem that I don't notice Lou approaching with a fresh pot of coffee until he speaks.

"Refill, Doc?"

"Please," I say, pushing my cup toward him. "Everything was delicious, Lou."

"Good to hear." He fills my cup, then glances over at the firefighters' table. "Those boys been busy this morning. Scanner said they pulled someone out of a bad wreck on the highway before the car fire."

I follow his gaze, seeing the three men now engaged in what appears to be a serious conversation. "They do important work."

"That they do." Lou studies me with the shrewdness of someone who's observed human nature across a diner counter for probably more than forty years. "Crawford's one of the good ones. Been coming in here since he was a rookie, all eager and green. Seen him grow into one of the most respected guys in the department."

"I'm sure he has," I reply neutrally, though I'm curious about this glimpse into Ollis's history from someone who's known him so long.

Lou lowers his voice. "Been different lately, though. Since that fire where they lost the old fellow. Quieter. Comes in alone more often than with the crew." He straightens. "Sorry, don't mean to gossip. Just thinking out loud."

"No need to apologize," I assure him. "I appreciate your concern for your customers."

He nods and moves on to the next table, leaving me with this additional piece of the puzzle that is Ollis Crawford—the public perception of his struggle, visible even to the owner of his regular breakfast spot.

I finish my coffee, trying to focus on the emails still awaiting replies on my phone rather than on the booth across the diner. When I signal for the check, Lou waves me off.

"Already taken care of," he says with a wink.

"What? By whom?" I ask, confused.

Lou inclines his head toward the firefighters' booth, now empty except for a generous tip visible on the table. "Crawford paid for your breakfast on his way out. Said something about professional courtesy."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "That's entirely unnecessary. And inappropriate, frankly."

Lou shrugs. "Can't un-pay a bill that's already settled. Besides, those fellas are always doing things like that—paying for seniors' meals and covering tabs for veterans. It's their way."

While this explanation makes the gesture seem less personal, I'm still uncomfortable with the boundary it crosses. A patient paying for my meal—even in the guise of general firefighter generosity—shifts the dynamic in ways I need to address.

I leave Lou a tip anyway and exit the diner, my thoughts now even more tangled than when I arrived. The crisp morning air does little to clear my head as I walk to my car.

On the drive to my office, I rehearse what I'll say at our next session—a gentle but firm reminder about the importance of maintaining clear professional boundaries, including financial ones. I'll emphasize that while I appreciate the gesture's kindness, our therapeutic relationship works best when these boundaries remain intact.

Yet beneath this appropriate professional response, I can't deny a flutter of something dangerously close to pleasure at the thought of him paying attention to me outside our sessions. Of him thinking of me not just as Dr. Morgan, trauma specialist, but as a woman having breakfast alone at Lou's Diner.

It's this reaction that troubles me most as I arrive at my office and prepare for my afternoon patients. Because while I can address Ollis's boundary crossing directly, my own internal response is harder to manage—and potentially far more problematic for his treatment.

Chapter 5 – Ollis

"Crawford, you going to tell us what that was about, or do we have to guess?" Lewis asks as we climb back into the truck, his grin suggesting he's already formed theories.

"Just someone I know," I reply, keeping my tone casual while securing my seat belt.

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