Page 20 of The Flames Between Us

"Heard you had a moment in there," he says without preamble. "And that you pushed through it."

I continue arranging my gear, not meeting his eyes. "News travels fast."

"It's a firehouse," he shrugs. "So, the therapy's helping then?"

"Seems like it." I finally look at him. "But one partial success doesn't mean I'm cured."

"Obviously," he agrees. "But it's something to build on."

I nod, allowing myself to acknowledge the victory, small as it is. "Yeah. It is."

Later, alone in the station's quiet room—a small space set aside for meditation or private calls—I pull out my phone and stare at the contact information Everly gave me for emergencies. This isn't an emergency, but I feel an urgent need to tell her what happened today.

My thumb hovers over her number. Would a text be inappropriate? Probably. Our relationship is professional, regardless of how I felt seeing her at Lou's this morning. Regardless of how her smile lit something inside me that has nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with being a man attracted to a compelling woman.

I put the phone away without texting. I'll tell her at our next session. That's the appropriate channel for this kind of update.

But as I return to the common area where the guys are already arguing about what to watch on TV, I can't help but wonder if she thought about our encounter too. If paying for her breakfast crossed a line I shouldn't have crossed. If the connection I felt sitting across from her was entirely one-sided.

These questions have no place in our therapeutic relationship. I know that. But they persist anyway, weaving themselves into the cautious hope that today's breakthrough has given me—the hope that maybe, with Everly Morgan's help, I can find my way back to being the firefighter I used to be.

The firefighter I want to be.

Three days later

Three days after the Maple Street fire, I find myself back in Everly's waiting room, arriving ten minutes early just like last time. The receptionist—Jim, I've learned his name now—offers me water, which I accept. The simple ritual feels familiar, almost comforting.

I'm both eager and anxious to tell Everly about the breakthrough at the fire. Eager because it validates her methods, anxious because our last interaction wasn't in this professional setting. The memory of seeing her at Lou's—casual, approachable, beautiful in a completely different way than she is here—has lingered with me, making me question whether I've somehow compromised our therapeutic relationship.

When her door opens at precisely 2:00, I stand perhaps too quickly.

"Ollis," she greets me, professional but warm. "Please come in."

I follow her into the now-familiar office, noting small changes since my last visit—a different arrangement of books on her desk, a new plant by the window, a cardigan draped over the back of her chair. These details shouldn't matter, but somehow they do. They remind me that Everly Morgan exists outside this room, has a life separate from her role as my therapist.

"How are you?" she asks as we settle into our respective chairs.

"Better than expected," I reply honestly. "Something happened that I wanted to discuss."

She nods encouragingly, but before I can continue, she raises a hand slightly. "Before we get into that, I'd like to briefly address our encounter at Lou's."

A knot forms in my stomach. "Is there a problem?"

"Not a problem, exactly," she says carefully. "But I want to clarify some boundaries that help maintain the effectiveness of our therapeutic relationship."

I brace myself, wondering if I've somehow screwed this up before it really began.

"While casual interactions in public spaces are unavoidable in a community like Cedar Falls, there are certain boundaries that preserve the professional nature of our work together," she continues. "One of those involves financial transactions."

It takes me a moment to understand what she means. "You're talking about the breakfast."

"Yes," she confirms. "While I appreciate the gesture, it's important that our relationship remains strictly professional, without exchanges of gifts or services that might complicate the therapeutic dynamic."

I feel my face warm slightly. "It wasn't meant to be inappropriate. It's sort of a firefighter tradition—we often pay for people's meals. Community goodwill thing."

Her expression softens slightly. "I understand that, and I'm not suggesting any inappropriate intent. I'm simply clarifying the boundary for future reference."

"Noted," I say, feeling oddly chastised despite her gentle tone. "Won't happen again."

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