Page 33 of One Night Flame

I KNOW. I know.

He’d looked at me like I was something rare. Kissed me like it was his favorite hobby. I had very fresh, very vivid memories of what that mouth could do.

I crossed my arms and focused very hard on one of my students unwrapping a granola bar like it was a bomb he’d been trained to defuse. Anything but Cord.

But it didn’t matter.

He was still Cord. Still charming and competent and maddeningly hot—and somehow worse now that I knew how good he felt under my hands. How good he made me feel.

This field trip was going to kill me.

I hadn’t meant to ghost him.

It wasn’t regret. God, it wasn’t anything close to regret.

But Sunday night I’d curled up on the couch, phone in hand, and stared at his text like it was a pop quiz I hadn’t studied for.

I wanted to reply.

I started to reply. Twice.

I even saw the damn dots pop up when I chickened out and closed the screen.

Then Liam came home from Grandma’s, bouncing with stories and sticky with syrup, and all that warm, dizzy, woman energy I’d been floating in vanished like it had never existed. He’d needed me. He always needed me. And somewhere in that swirl of mom-guilt and mental math about lunches and laundry, it started to feel… selfish.

And later? It felt too late.

And now? Now it felt impossible.

Cord crouched in front of a knot of kids, his back to me ashe explained something about fire hoses, his hands gesturing with calm assurance. I watched one of the kids reach for his arm and ask a question, and he smiled as he answered—like he had all the time in the world.

Like he hadn’t texted and heard nothing back.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, hugging my clipboard to my chest like it might shield me from how much I wanted to press rewind. Or fast forward. Or do something besides stand here pretending I hadn’t dreamed about that man’s hands for two nights straight.

I didn’t know what I was doing. But I wanted to.

I wanted to figure out a way to make this work. I just didn’t know how.

The kids rotated stations in a blur of noise—mini tornadoes in Velcro sneakers and jelly-stained hoodies. I stayed at the back, pretending I was focused on anything besides Cord.

Then he looked up.

Just for a second. Just long enough.

Our eyes met across the chaos, and the world stuttered. The chatter, the clatter of helmets, the exaggerated “whoooooosh” of the hose demonstration—it all faded under the weight of that look.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just… saw me. And there was something in his face I couldn’t quite read. Not anger. Not exactly hurt. But something searching.

Why didn’t you text me? Was I wrong about what that night meant?

My throat tightened.I wanted to. I tried. I didn’t know how.

He glanced away before I could decide whether to speak. Before I could figure out what I’d even say if there weren’t several dozen tiny humans everywhere.

The noise surged back in—a chorus of little voicesdemanding turns and explanations—but all I could hear was that look, echoing in my chest.

Loud. Unmistakable. Unfinished.

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