Page 41 of One Night Flame

The coffee table had been cleared. The worst of the toy storm corralled into baskets. The blanket fort reconstructed with only minor architectural improvements. The laundry that had been overflowing was now folded in two neat piles. Liam was curled next to me on the rug, head on a pillow, watching the screen with rapt attention and one hand still clutching Bronty.

And me? I was on the floor. Cross-legged. Arms loose over my knees. Like this was just… a thing I did. Like it was any normal Thursday and not the exact opposite of anything I’d ever planned for myself.

Lucy blinked. “You cleaned?”

I glanced up at her, suddenly unsure what she was expecting me to say. The words came out without thinking. “I thought it would make you feel better to not have it hanging over your head.”

She pressed her lips together, and I wondered if I’d way overstepped in my efforts to smooth things for her.

In case she needed a minute—and because I definitely did—I looked back at the screen, pretending I wasn’t ridiculously aware of her behind me. “Soup’s simmering. It’s more or less ready whenever you think you’re up to it. Laundry’s sorted. Liam’s been educating me on dinosaurs.”

Lucy made a small sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—and came to settle on the couch behind us. Liam barely blinked, but he leaned against her when she brushed his curls back from his forehead.

“You really are a hero,” she murmured.

I didn’t say anything to that. What was there to say? So instead, I changed the subject. “Want soup?”

“I do!” Liam piped up.

I eyed him. “Do those Goldfish feel like they’re still swimming in your belly?”

He giggled. “No. They’re crackers, silly!”

“Okay, then we’ll try soup.” I shifted my gaze to his mother. “Lucy?”

She gave me a long look before acknowledging, “Soup would be great.”

I dished up small bowls for both of them, figuring they could absolutely have more if this stayed down. Snagged a sleeve of saltines, and carried all of it back to the living room.

“More ginger ale, little man?”

“Yeah!” He held up his sippy cup.

“Liam,” Lucy said gently.

“Yes, please.”

“You got it. More Sprite, Lucy?”

Like her son, she primly said, “Yes, please.”

She was just taking a bite of soup when I came back. The moment her lips closed around the spoon, she froze, her eyes going wide.

My brain jumped to overdrive. “Is something wrong? Do you have food allergies?” I was already mentally rehearsing emergency procedures when she shook her head and swallowed.

“You cancook.”

“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. Kinda goes with the territory. We like to eat at the firehouse.”

Liam polished off the entire bowl of soup before slumping sideways on the couch, cheek smushed into a pillow and blanket pulled to his chin. Bronty was clutched under one arm like he’d fended off a dragon with it.

Lucy sat beside him, her soup mostly untouched on the coffee table. She’d managed most of the broth and a handful of crackers, at least. She was curled sideways, legs tucked up, hair still damp and leaving little wet marks on the shoulder of her shirt. She tried to blink through whatever exhaustion was holding her hostage—but within minutes, her head tilted back against the cushion, her breathing deepened, and she was out cold.

I sat in the armchair across from them, bowl still warm in my hands, watching them sleep.

The cartoon had clicked off, replaced by the soft hum of whatever came next. The house was still. No dishes clanging. No kid commentary about prehistoric herbivores. Even the washer had finishedits cycle.

Just breathing. Soft, synchronized breathing from the two people tangled up in a quiet pile across from me.

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