Page 39 of One Night Flame

I didn’t let the words out. Didn’t want to put that out there when she was in this vulnerable state. Not when I didn’t exactly know what I meant. Right now, all I knew was that she needed help, and I could offer that.

After another long minute of staring, Lucy finally nodded, her eyes suspiciously shiny as she took the Sprite. “Thank you.”

She started back toward the sofa, then turned as I started rooting through her cabinets. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a cutting board.”

“Why?”

“I’m making soup.”

Her gaze slid to the bags on the counter, where the tops of soup cans were clearly visible. “But you bought soup?”

“That’s for later.” Ah. There was the cutting board, leaning against the fridge on the counter.

Lucy didn’t return to the living room. She sort of melted into a chair at the kitchen table, watching me with complete bafflement as she sipped the Sprite.

Snagging the board and a knife from the block, I made myself a workspace and started peeling carrots like I had nowhere else to be. Because… I didn’t. At least not for the next two and a half days.

I’d made this soup a hundred times. Rotisserie chicken, garlic, onions, carrots, celery, thyme, a little lemon at the end after adding the noodles. It wasn’t fancy, but it was pretty quick and would likely be a lot better for both of them than the canned stuff. And waiting on it to cook gave me an excuse to stick around a little longer, just… in case she needed something else.

I chopped vegetables with methodical focus—sneaking the occasional glance at her to make sure she was still drinking—letting the rhythm quiet whatever the hell was churning in my chest. Being here, in her kitchen, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, broth starting to simmer… it grounded me in a way I hadn’t expected. Like my body had remembered something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet. Helping her wasn’t a detour. It felt like purpose. One I hadn’t realized I needed.

Once I’d added all the ingredients to the stockpot, I gave them all a stir, reduced the heat to simmer, and put on the lid. Lucy still sat at the table. Well, sat was being generous. She was one step away from becoming one with the surface where she leaned.

“Sprite sitting okay?” I could see the empty bottle on the table.

A faint nod.

I moved a little closer, buttoning down the urge to scoop her up. “Go take a shower.”

Her head snapped toward me, bleary eyes blinking like she hadn’t heard right.

“I’ve got the soup,” I added, gesturing toward the stove. “I’ll keep an eye on your little guy. You’ll feel better.”

She didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at me—really looked—and I could see the wheels turning behind her flushed, pale face. The hesitation wasn’t about me, I didn’t think. It was about the habit of always doing everything herself. Of never handing off the weight.

“I’m not gonna burn the place down,” I said gently. “Promise.”

Her shoulders dropped. Not much, but enough. She nodded once, tight, and mumbled something that might’ve been “Thanks” before pushing herself out of the chair. I watched her shuffle down the hall, toward her bedroom, hyper aware that she seemed on the verge of keeling over. How long had it been since she’d been able to keep food down?

Then the bedroom door shut, and just like that, I was standing in the middle of a house that wasn’t mine, stirring soup on a stove I didn’t know, babysitting a kid I’d met once. Sort of.

She’d trusted me. With her home. With her child.

It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But damn, it landed like a punch to the ribs.

I was still reeling when I heard the soft shuffle of socked feet behind me. I turned to find the kid—Liam—standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching a worn, green stuffed dinosaur in one hand. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and there was still a faint flush on his cheeks, but his blue eyes—his mother’s eyes—were bright and curious.

“You’re the firefighter,” he said, solemn as a judge.

I blinked. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

He didn’t move, just stared at me like I might spontaneously burst into flame. Then, with no warning, he padded forward and launched into a completely unprompted monologue about brontosauruses—how they weren’t actually called that anymore, how they ate leaves, how they were really big and probably couldn’t fit in the fire truck.

I crouched to his level, mostly because it felt like the right thing to do, and listened. Just… listened. Nodded in the right places. Asked if his dino had a name. (It did. Bronty. Of course.)

He talked with his whole face, hands waving, voice getting more confident with every sentence. Like having someone pay attention gave him a battery recharge.

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