Page 30 of One Night Flame

The bruises on his ego were way worse than the ones on his shins.

The crew was half-scattered through the bay, hauling out gear for the elementary school tour. I should’ve been focused—field trips meant crowd control, endless questions, and at least one kid asking to try the siren. But I reached for my phone instead.

Habit.

Hope.

Still nothing.

I thumbed the screen, even though I already knew. No new notifications. Just my message, sent two nights ago, sitting there like a question nobody wanted to answer.

Cord:

Had a great time. Would love to see you again.

Simple. Friendly. No pressure.

She’d seen it. I was sure she had. I’d even caught the dots once—typing… and then nothing.

I told myself not to read into it. People got busy. She had work, responsibilities. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she meant to answer and forgot. Hell, maybe she fell asleep before she could hit send.

I tried to believe that. I really did.

But by now, I was starting to feel the difference between busy… and avoiding.

Maybe she woke up the next morning and changed her mind. Decided it was a fun night and nothing more. Maybe it was the auction thing—maybe it felt transactional to her, no matter how good it got after.

And it had been good.

She’d invited me in.

She’d wanted me there.

And I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since.

I blew out a breath, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, watching the boots of my crew scuff across the concrete.

That kiss had felt like more. That night had felt like more. But maybe it was only more to me.

The bay was ready—hoses coiled, gear lined up, the engine polished to a mirror shine thanks to Moose’s compulsive need for order. Twitch was by the big doors already practicing his best “Hi there, future firefighters!” wave like we hadn’t all mocked him for it last year.

Donkey handed me a coffee that tasted vaguely like regret and cardboard. “You think we get the screamer this time or the clinger?”

“Always both,” I muttered, sipping anyway.

The bus turned into the lot with the familiar squeal of brakes, that bright yellow rectangle of chaos pulling up like it belonged here. Which, in a way, it did. Huckleberry Creek only had one elementary school. We’d done this field trip a dozen times—show the gear, let them sit in the truck, field a hundred questions about fire poles and whether we actually eat chili every day.

Another day, another batch of wide-eyed kids and juice-sticky fingers.

The doors hissed open.

And then Lucy stepped off the bus with that same calm authority I’d seen when she wrangled nerves into charm over candlelight. Clipboard in hand. Sunglasses on. She wore that teacher-focus like armor. Calm. Capable. Beautiful.

And just like that, the breath left my lungs.

She hadn’t seen me yet, her attention on organizing the stream of bouncing six-year-olds into something that resembled a line.

Of course. Elementary school. She’d told me. I just hadn’t done the math. Or maybe I hadn’t let myself even consider that she could be part of today’s group.

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