Page 29 of One Night Flame

I sat up, legs crossed again. “He was just—warm. And funny. Confident but not cocky. He made me laugh, actually laugh, and not in that I’m-nodding-because-I’m-tired-and-it’s-easier way.”

“You felt seen,” Gillian said quietly.

I swallowed. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it felt like.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, Lu.”

“I know.” I leaned back against the headboard. “It was amazing. Like, actually amazing. I didn’t realize how much I missed feeling like this until I did.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows. “It was just one night, though.”

Gillian didn’t miss a beat. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

“No, I mean—” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It can’t be more than that. I’ve got Liam. I’ve got work. I’ve got a life that’s already full to the edges. There’s no space for a man like that.”

The words came out sharper than I intended, like I needed to say them fast before the wanting crept back in.

Because it was already creeping. That stupid golden hour glow in my chest, the echo of his laugh still buzzing somewhere behind my ribs.

But life wasn’t built for soft and shining things. Not mine, anyway.

I’d had a night. A damn good one. That was more than most people got.

And even now, I could feel the door starting to close again—quietly, decisively—before I’d even gotten used to how it felt to have it open.

Gillian went quiet for a second, which usually meant she was winding up for a truth bomb. “Maybe you don’t have toknow how it ends. Maybe you just let yourself want something for once.”

I let out a breath. “It was one night.”

“So?” she said. “You’re allowed to enjoy one night. You’re also allowed to want another.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the pillow. I stared at the faint smudge of mascara still on the pillowcase from last night and tried to remember the last time I let myself want anything that didn’t come with guilt or a price tag.

I didn’t say anything. But Gillian didn’t need me to. She knew me too well to push harder.

And maybe that was the part that made me tear up a little—because wanting felt dangerous. But not wanting? That had started to feel like forgetting how to live.

I shifted on the bed, tucking my legs under me and pulling the duvet blanket up like it might hide something I wasn’t ready to admit. The phone was still warm against my ear.

“It was just so nice,” I said quietly. “To be Lucy. Just Lucy. Not Miss Sullivan. Not Mom.”

Gillian didn’t rush to fill the silence. Just let it breathe for a moment before answering, “You still are.”

I closed my eyes. Let the words settle, even though I wasn’t sure I believed them. Not yet.

“Yeah,” I said, finally. A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I guess I needed the reminder.”

We hung up not long after that, promises of texting later and something about her mailing me a bad decision candle “for ambiance.”

But I sat there for a long time after, wrapped in the blanket, Cord’s scent still faint on my skin.

The ache hadn’t left.

But neither had the glow.

ELEVEN

CORD

By the time I slumped onto the bench by my locker, I was running on fumes and caffeine—and not even the good kind. Two full days of calls, including one real kitchen fire, a flood at the middle school gym, and Twitch getting himself stuck on a porch roof trying to save a cat that absolutely did not want saving.

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