Page 48 of One Night Flame

“Hey,” he said, voice a little rough like he hadn’t used it much yet today.

“Hey,” I managed, gripping the edge of the door a little tighter than necessary. This wasn’t just a date—it was the first time he’d be out in public with both of us. The first time we’d be a visible unit.

Before I could overthink it further, Liam shot out from behind my legs like a heat-seeking missile, his plastic firefighter helmet tilted sideways. “Let’s gooooo!”

He sprinted down the steps and launched himself straight into Cord’s personal space like they’d been best friends for years. Cord crouched without hesitation, catching the blur of motion with a grin, high-fiving like it was aregular thing.

Then Liam’s small hand found Cord’s—just reached up and took it, like that was allowed now.

I swear, something shifted behind my ribs. Like a puzzle piece clicked into place that I hadn’t realized was missing.

Cord looked up at me, eyes wide with something close to wonder, and I saw it hit him too. Not the weight of it. The rightness of it.

He’d showed up. Not just for me. For us.

And somehow, it already felt easy. Natural. Like this was just what we did. That terrified me more than anything else—because the last time something felt easy, it hadn’t lasted.

The fall festival took over the town square like some kind of Hallmark-inspired explosion. Tents lined Main Street, pitched along the sidewalks between the courthouse steps and the library lawn. The air smelled like kettle corn and spiced cider, with the occasional whiff of hay bales and funnel cakes. Paper pumpkins dangled from lamp posts. Half the town was here, milling around between the bake sale tables, the craft booths, and the bounce house that was already leaning too far left.

North Alabama didn’t get the full Vermont fall treatment, but the trees were doing their best—branches half-stripped, clinging to a few proud, stubborn leaves the color of rust and flame.

Liam was practically vibrating with excitement in the back seat the moment we parked. “I see it! I see the obstacle course!”

“Shoes on before launch,” I warned, but he was already halfway out of the truck with one sneaker barely hanging on.

Cord met me on the passenger side, offering that crooked grin as he pulled the last strap of Liam’s Paw Patrol backpack over his massive shoulder. It looked ridiculous and utterly adorable. “You ready for this?”

I nodded, trying to convince myself I was. “I think so.”

Liam didn’t wait. He spotted the bright red firefighterobstacle course and bolted, plastic helmet clutched in one hand, yelling something about saving a bear from lava.

Cord jogged after him without hesitation.

I trailed a few steps behind, heart stuck somewhere between pride and panic. Crowds usually made me feel like I was holding my breath. But here—now—watching the two of them together like this? It was… different.

Cord crouched beside Liam at the start of the course, fixing that dangling shoe, pointing out the tunnel he had to crawl through, how to dodge the cones, and where the stuffed bear was waiting to be “rescued” from the mini crate labeled BURNING BUILDING in bold red paint.

Liam hung on every word. Nodded solemnly like he’d just been entrusted with a sacred mission.

Then Cord stepped back, arms crossed and grin wide, and cheered as my kid launched into the course with the kind of energy only sugar and adrenaline could fuel. I was starting to suspect he’d snuck an extra bowl of Lucky Charms while I’d been doing my makeup.

Cord wasn’t performing. Wasn’t babysitting. He was with Liam—present, patient, gentle.

He didn’t flinch when Liam tripped a little or asked a thousand questions. He just encouraged him and kept cheering, and my son—my sweet, occasionally shy little boy—absolutely lit up under his attention.

And me? I stood a few feet away, feeling something twist deep in my chest. Cord hadn’t hesitated. Not once. He didn’t fake it. Didn’t force it. And now Liam was looking at him like a real-life superhero.

How was I supposed to protect my heart from that?

We each had a cup of cider—Liam’s with extra cinnamon, Cord’s plain, mine already lukewarm because I kept forgetting to drink it. The paper cups steamed faintly in the crisp afternoonair—a real gift of weather, given it could easily feel like summer on into November here in North Alabama.

Liam was perched on Cord’s shoulders, chattering about every scarecrow we passed. His little fingers curled in Cord’s hair like reins, but Cord didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked like he belonged there—grinning up at Liam’s commentary, steadying his small legs without a second thought.

“You know he’s going to treat you like a jungle gym forever now, right?” I asked, falling in beside them on the path between booths.

Cord shrugged. “Could be worse. At least he’s lighter than the gear I usually carry.”

I smiled into my cider and tried not to let my heart show on my face.

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