Page 32 of One Night Flame

She hadn’t disappeared.

I didn’t know what it meant—not really—but I’d take it.

And when she looked back over her shoulder and gave me that small, knowing smile?

Yeah. I was still in this.

Chief gave me the signal from across the bay—two fingers tapped and a nod that said you’re up.

I took a breath, pasted on my firehouse demo smile, and pitched my voice just enough to cut through the buzz of six-year-old energy. “Alright, future firefighters. You ready to see some real gear?”

A chorus of “YEAH!” rang out like we’d just announced free ice cream.

Moose bounded forward, but the second he started unstrapping the turnout gear, he got the Velcro tangled and nearly fell over trying to wrestle it off. The kids howled.

Donkey stepped in with the thermal imaging camera, flipped it around, and made a big show of pretending to scan for ghosts. “We’ve got a hot spot behind Twitch’s big head—might be a ghost with snack privileges.”

More laughter. One kid gasped, clutched her friend’s arm, and whispered, “A ghost?”

The bay echoed with delighted chaos, and for a few minutes, I let myself get caught up in it—explaining hoses andoxygen tanks, passing around a radio, letting them all shout “Firefighter One reporting for duty!” into it.

But every few seconds, my eyes drifted back to Lucy.

She stood near the back, clipboard tucked under one arm, calming a boy whose shoelace had turned into a tripping hazard. Her voice was low, her smile gentle, her presence somehow bigger than her frame.

She was steady. Collected. And quietly radiant.

I watched the way one of her students leaned against her leg like it was second nature. The way she smoothed a hand over the girl’s head without missing a beat in conversation.

God, she was beautiful.

I turned back to the kids as one of them tugged on my sleeve, demanding to know how many fires I’d fought “on the moon.”

“I’ll tell you,” I said with a wink, “but only if you promise to eat all your vegetables.”

They booed me with the kind of joy only six-year-olds can muster.

I laughed with them. Gave them a little more show.

But somewhere underneath the layers of charm and jokes and kid-friendly explanations, my brain was still circling one thought:I can wait. Just don’t let this be the end of it.

TWELVE

LUCY

Cord crouched beside a spread of turnout gear, explaining how each piece worked like he’d been born to do it. His voice carried just enough to command attention over the general chaos of sixty or so first graders trying very hard not to explode with excitement. One kid gasped when Cord let him try on a helmet, and Cord grinned, adjusted the strap, then showed him how the thermal camera worked with an exaggerated importance that had the whole group giggling.

I stood near the back of the group with my clipboard, doing the third headcount in five minutes to make sure we didn’t have any sneak-aways, but my eyes kept drifting toward him.

Of course, he was good with kids. Calm. Warm. Effortlessly in control of the chaos. Of course, he’d crouch down to their level and explain things like they mattered. Of course, he’d flash that devastating smile without even realizing it was devastating.

God, I was in trouble.

Behind me, one of the other teachers—probably Ms. Fields from 1C—leaned over and whispered, “Okay, the tall one? Total superhero vibes. Like he stepped off the back cover of one of those romance books witha fire axe.”

I managed a soft, “Mm-hmm,” and tried to keep my face neutral.

But inside?

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