Page 38 of One Night Flame

I opened my mouth automatically, the answer already there. The answer I always gave. “Nothing. We’re good.”

It was knee-jerk. Habit. A shield thrown up without thinking, like saying anything else would invite disaster or disappointment. Except this time, I wasn’t saying it to a doctor or a teacher or a nosy neighbor. I was saying it to Cord.

And he wasn’t buying a single word.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, steady as a brick wall, while I slouched against the doorframe like overcooked pasta. I didn’t have the energy to pretend I was fine anymore—not when I knew I looked like roadkill and felt worse. I didn’t have the energy to stay vertical much longer.

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile, more like quiet insistence. “Come on. Let me do something. I can hit the store. Soup? Crackers? Ginger ale? You name it.”

I blinked at him. My brain stuttered between saying no and bursting into tears. Somewhere in the mess of fatigue andnausea and that awful feeling of being the only adult in the house when you barely felt human yourself, his voice was like a warm blanket around my shoulders. Firm. Gentle. Not pitying.

He meant it.

I thought back to the auction, and how I’d wished Grandma had bought me a friend. Maybe she had, after all. I sagged against the doorjamb, too tired to pretend, too sick to be proud. “Okay,” I whispered. “Fine. Soup. Saltines. Sprite.”

Cord nodded like I’d just given him coordinates for a rescue mission. “Done. Anything else?”

“Um… popsicles?” Something cold seemed like it would feel good to my throat.

“Got it. If you think of anything else, text me.” And then he turned and jogged down the porch steps, already pulling his keys from his pocket. Like this wasn’t weird. Like I wasn’t disgusting. Like I was allowed to need something.

I closed the door and leaned my forehead against it, the cool wood soothing against my overheated skin.

God.

I couldn’t believe he’d seen me like this. Worse, I couldn’t believe how much I wanted him to come back, despite the state of everything.

FIFTEEN

CORD

I probably could’ve gotten in and out with one bag if I’d stuck to the list.

But there I was, standing in the checkout line with enough supplies to stock a quarantine ward. Two kinds of soup—chicken noodle and tomato, because hell if I knew which was her comfort classic—in three different brands. Saltines, of course. Sprite and ginger ale, just because variety. Popsicles. Three different variety packs because I couldn’t forget the rasp of her voice as she’d whispered that last request like it was somehow unreasonable. And then, just for good measure, a few things that hadn’t even been on her radar: Gatorade. Bread for toast, some eggs, and applesauce, because they might sound good later. And then the ingredients for real soup because… she deserved the good stuff.

I told myself I was just being thorough. Just trying to help. It was what I did, right?

By the time I made it back to her porch, I was balancing four bags, elbowing the doorbell and hoping I didn’t drop anything.

When she opened the door, she blinked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was real.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d jogged up the stairs with a week’s worth of survival gear. “I brought supplies.”

She stared. Just long enough for me to worry I’d misread everything. Then that stunned look softened—grateful, a little shy. Like maybe she hadn’t quite believed I’d come back or wondered if I’d been a fever dream.

“Um.” I lifted the bags a little.

“Oh, right. Thank you.” She backed up, and I moved past her, headed for the kitchen.

Lucy trailed after me. “You can just leave them anywhere.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get things put away.” I set the bags on the counter and dug out the cold Sprite I’d grabbed at the register, so she wouldn’t have to wait. Since she looked weak as a kitten, I went ahead and twisted open the cap. “Here. See how this sits. Then we’ll see about soup.”

Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, her brows knitting together. “Cord, you don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to get sick. Trust me, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

“I have the immune system of an ox.” I pointed back toward the living room. “Couch. You need rest. I’ve got this.”

I’ve got you.

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