Page 2 of The Fire Between Us

I take a quick shower, keeping the bathroom door open to hear Amelia. The water pressure is weak, but the heat is steady, and I stay under the spray until my muscles begin to relax. When I step out, I catch my reflection in the steamy mirror. The bruise on my shoulder has faded to a sickly yellow, but the one on my ribs is still purple. They're healing, just like the rest of me. Slowly, imperfectly.

I pull on sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, then check my phone—a prepaid model I purchased three towns ago. No messages, which is good. No one should have this number.

For a long moment, I stand at the window, peering through the gap in the curtains at the quiet street. Cars pass occasionally. A couple walks hand in hand on the opposite sidewalk—normal people living normal lives. I wonder what that feels like.

I'm not tired, but I need to sleep when Amelia sleeps. That's the rule. I curl around her tiny form, breathing in her baby shampoo scent, and close my eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we start building something that might, someday, feel like a real life.

The Next Day

The sound of sirens jolts me awake at 7:15 AM.

Amelia stirs beside me but doesn't wake, a small mercy. I slide carefully from the bed and part the curtains. Two blocks down, red and blue lights pulse against the morning fog. A fire truck speeds past the motel, its siren cutting through the quiet town.

My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I step away from the window. Just a local emergency, nothing to do with us. Not everything is a threat, I remind myself. Not everything is him.

Still, the adrenaline has me fully awake now. I take advantage of the quiet morning to shower again and dress in what I consider my "interview clothes"—dark jeans without any wear, a blue button-down shirt, and a cardigan that hides how much weight I've lost.

I twist my hair into a neat bun, apply minimal makeup, and practice my interview smile in the mirror. Friendly but not flirtatious. Capable but not threatening. The balance is exhausting.

By the time Amelia wakes, I've already mapped out our day: breakfast at the motel, then the diner to ask about the waitress position, followed by the flower shop. If there's time, we'll find the local park I spotted on the town's website.

"Good morning, sunshine," I say as her eyes flutter open. "Ready to start our new adventure?"

She responds with a toothy grin that makes my heart clench. For her, I remind myself. Everything is for her.

The motel's breakfast room is empty except for an elderly couple reading newspapers. I settle Amelia into the highchair the clerk mentioned, grateful for one less thing to juggle. The breakfast is basic—cereal, toast, some fruit that's seen better days—but Amelia delights in the novelty of the Cheerios, and I manage to eat half a banana and drink a cup of coffee that is, as promised, decent.

We're just finishing when the bell above the door jingles, and a man walks in, bringing with him the scent of smoke and morning air. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and has dark hair that curls slightly where it's growing too long. He wears navy blue pants with reflective strips and a Cedar Falls Fire Department t-shirt that's seen better days.

"Morning, Max," the elderly man calls out. "Heard the sirens. Anything serious?"

"Nah, just the Wilsons' garage," the firefighter—Max—replies, heading straight for the coffee. "Space heater too close to some stored paint. Got it before it reached the house."

He pours coffee into a paper cup, then turns, scanning the room. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment—they're strikingly blue against his smoke-smudged face—and he offers a casual nod before returning to his conversation.

I look away quickly, focusing on wiping Amelia's hands. Firefighter. Good to know in an emergency, but otherwise, not relevant to us. No one is, not really. It's just Amelia and me against the world.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I gather our things, carefully avoiding looking at the firefighter again. Just Amelia and me, I repeat. It's safer that way.

But as I lift Amelia from the highchair, she drops Mr. Whiskers, and before I can bend down, the stuffed cat is being held out to us.

"I think this belongs to the little lady," says the firefighter—Max—with a smile.

Chapter 2 - Max

I'm not usually awake this early unless I'm on shift, but the call about the Wilson garage fire came in just as I was getting home.

Typical Wilson situation—guy's been warned about that ancient space heater at least three times. Today's damage could have been avoided with a twenty-dollar extension cord and some common sense.

The coffee at Cedar Inn Motel isn't great, but it's hot and available, which is all I need after breathing smoke for the past hour. I'm scanning the nearly empty breakfast room when I notice her—a woman I've never seen before, sitting with a baby in a highchair. She looks away quickly when our eyes meet, something I'm used to when I show up in places still smelling like a bonfire.

I'm in the middle of telling Frank Peterson about the fire when the baby drops a stuffed cat on the floor. The woman is juggling a lot—bags, baby, breakfast trash—so I step over and pick it up.

"I think this belongs to the little lady," I say, holding out the worn cat toy. Up close, the baby is adorable—big curious eyes, wispy blonde hair, and that special kind of pudgy that only one-year-olds manage to be.

The woman hesitates before taking the toy, her fingers brushing mine for just a second.

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