Page 25 of One Night Flame

This wasn’t more. Couldn’t be. I had a life that didn’t have space for things like this. For men like him. For wanting like this.

But as I lay tangled with him in my bed, his breath warm against my hair, one hand still splayed across my back like he wasn’t quite ready to let go…

I couldn’t deny one simple truth.

God, what a moment.

NINE

CORD

The morning light slipped through the blinds in soft golden bars. I blinked against the brightness, disoriented for a second, until the scent hit me.

Coffee.

Not the sludge from the firehouse kitchen, or even the unapologetically bold roast from Kiss My Grits. This was gentler. Cozy. Like it had been brewed to be sipped slowly instead of inhaled between alarms.

Lucy.

The spot beside me was empty but still warm. She hadn’t been gone long. I stretched into it instinctively, still feeling the press of her body in the sheets, the softness of her thighs hooked over mine, the echo of her breathless laugh.

I hadn’t meant to stay. That wasn’t my thing. Nights like last night usually ended with a quiet, pre-dawn exit, no mess, no questions, no expectations.

But I’d stayed.

And now? I didn’t want to go.

I sat up, ran a hand through my hair, and looked around inthe muted light. Her room was quiet, the house still. I could hear the soft burble of the coffeemaker down the hall.

No TV. No footsteps. No voices. Just peace.

I pulled on my jeans and padded toward the kitchen barefoot, still rumpled from sleep, still not entirely sure what I was doing.

But I knew I wanted to see her again. And that was new.

She was at the stove when I stepped into the kitchen—barefoot, in a soft gray tee that hung off one shoulder and a pair of pajama shorts that showed off a whole lot of long, bare leg. Her hair was piled in a messy knot on top of her head, wisps curling around her neck and cheek.

She looked like a goddamn dream.

Lucy turned at the sound of my footsteps, eyes widening just slightly before she caught herself. Her smile came quick, but there was a nervous flutter to it, like she was still trying to figure out what this was. What we were now.

“Morning,” she said, voice light but tight around the edges. “Coffee?”

“Wouldn’t say no.” I leaned against the doorway, watching her as she reached for a second mug, her movements a little too precise. Like if she didn’t focus, she might drop something.

She poured without looking at me, her posture still relaxed on the surface, but that energy underneath told a different story. She wasn’t panicked. She wasn’t pulling away. She was just… unsure.

Not of the night before. I could still feel the imprint of her fingernails on my back.

But of this. The morning after. The part neither of us had written yet.

I stepped forward, took the mug she offered, and let my fingers brush hers as I did. “Thanks,” I said softly, just to see her lookup.

Her eyes met mine. And for a second, the nerves eased. Just a little.

I stepped in close, the coffee warm in my hand, and reached up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. She stilled under my touch, like she wasn’t sure what I was going to do next.

Then I kissed her. Soft. Unrushed. No heat, no pressure, just a quiet press of my mouth to hers.

---