FLAMES AND GHOSTS
1601 Words
CHAPTER FIVE – Flames and Ghosts
Riding Into Her Heart
---
It started with a note.
Not a text. Not a message through someone else.
A real note—folded in half, tucked gently into the flap of Eliana’s backpack, scrawled on thick paper in clear, firm handwriting.
> “Hey. I didn’t want to assume or push, so here’s this instead. If coffee ever sounds like something you’d want to share—with no pressure, no expectations—text me. – Dominic”
He’d left his number at the bottom.
Amara stared at it for a long while that night, long after Eliana had gone to bed. She sat by the window, her blanket pulled tight, the house quiet except for the sound of crickets whispering through the trees.
It had been years since someone had asked her out—truly asked, not barked orders, not demanded time, not slipped into her space and called it affection. This was different.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just… coffee.
And Dominic Carter.
She still didn’t quite know what to make of him. Biker. Rough. Tattoos and calloused hands. But the man who looked dangerous was also the one who had knelt to speak gently to her daughter like she mattered. Who had remembered her name after a single conversation. Who had looked at her—not through her—with a quiet respect that was more unsettling than any compliment.
Amara tapped the paper, chewed her lip, and finally reached for her phone.
> Hi. This is Amara. I like coffee.
His reply came three minutes later.
> Then I’d love to take you out for some. Friday okay?
---
Friday came with wind and sunshine, Hollow Creek wrapped in gold leaves and cool air. Amara had spent more time picking her outfit than she wanted to admit. She ended up in soft jeans, a green sweater that hugged her curves, ankle boots, and simple gold hoops. Casual, but intentional. She wasn’t dressing to impress. Just… to feel like herself again.
She arrived at the café—Brewed Awakening—ten minutes early. It was quiet inside, rustic and warm, the scent of cinnamon and espresso weaving through wooden beams and potted plants. The barista smiled as Amara sat near the window.
Her fingers tapped the table.
When the bell above the door chimed, she didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
She felt it—like a shift in the air.
Dominic walked in wearing a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled, jeans, and boots. His dark hair was windswept, and his eyes found hers the second he stepped inside. There was no hesitation, no awkward shuffle—he walked to her like he belonged there.
“Hey,” he said, his voice smoother than usual, gentler somehow.
“Hi,” she replied, nervous but steady.
“You beat me here.”
“I wasn’t sure how early was too early.”
“Anything before the caffeine hits is dangerous,” he teased, and she laughed—genuinely, easily.
They ordered drinks. Hers was a caramel macchiato with oat milk. His was black coffee, straight and bitter. They sat at the corner booth near the window, a soft light washing over the table between them.
“You nervous?” he asked, eyes on her, not unkindly.
She shrugged, smiling tightly. “A little. It’s been a long time.”
He nodded. “For me too.”
“Really? I would’ve figured you had women lining up.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You’d be surprised. I’m not much for games.”
Their conversation started light—childhood stories, favorite books, the best meals in Hollow Creek. Dominic talked about his niece and brother, about fixing up bikes with his mom before she passed, about how he loved building things with his hands.
Amara talked about editing freelance, about bedtime stories with Eliana, about how small towns had started to feel like freedom instead of confinement.
“You smile when you talk about your daughter,” he said at one point.
“She’s my reason for everything.”
“I can see that.”
There was something in his voice—respect. Not the kind that comes from obligation, but the kind a man gives when he understands what it takes to start over. What it costs to survive.
When she mentioned Eliana’s artwork from school, he chuckled.
“She’s clever. Sharp. She told me last week I smelled like ‘fire and waffles.’”
Amara laughed. “She says things like that. Calls me a spark-plug.”
“She’s not wrong.”
Their eyes held. A long beat. Not awkward. Just... real.
Something clicked.
---
After coffee, they stepped outside into the breeze.
“Walk with me?” Dominic asked.
She nodded.
They strolled down Main Street, the town quiet in the late afternoon. Leaves danced in the wind, curling under their feet. The buildings were old but charming—hand-painted signs, lace curtains, the soft hum of a guitar drifting from the music shop.
“I like this,” Amara said, looking around.
“Hollow Creek?” he asked.
“This moment.”
Dominic glanced at her sideways. “Me too.”
She didn’t expect it—the ease. The quiet draw between them. It wasn’t magnetic. It was grounding. Like being near him reminded her she was still standing, still capable of warmth, of interest, of living.
Then came the voice.
Shrill. Familiar.
“Well, well. Look what we have here.”
Amara’s blood froze.
She turned.
Sasha.
Trevor’s mistress.
The woman who had crawled into her life like a parasite and smiled while everything burned.
Sasha was exactly as Amara remembered—petty, polished, venomous in stilettos and tight dresses. Her bleached curls were perfect. Her lips glossed like a magazine ad. She held a shopping bag and wore a smile that dripped with false sweetness.
Amara didn’t move.
Sasha’s eyes flicked from her to Dominic and back. “Didn’t think I’d see you around, Amara. Small towns really do take in strays, huh?”
Amara stiffened.
Sasha took a step closer, arms crossed. “You’ve been quiet. I figured you’d still be hiding. Crying over a man you couldn’t keep.”
Dominic’s body tensed.
He turned slowly, calmly, but there was something dangerous simmering beneath his stillness.
Amara opened her mouth—to speak, to retreat—but Dominic beat her to it.
“Back off,” he said, voice low.
Sasha blinked at him, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Whatever your problem is, don’t bring it here.”
Sasha scoffed. “This doesn’t concern you. This is between me and her.”
Dominic stepped forward, not aggressively—just enough to make her look up. “Then I’m making it concern me.”
His voice was calm but heavy, like thunder before a storm.
Sasha rolled her eyes, annoyed. “Typical. Always needs a man to speak for her.”
Amara felt the heat rise in her cheeks—not from shame, but from old wounds.
But Dominic didn’t flinch.
“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” he said. “She just doesn’t deserve to waste her breath on someone not worth the air.”
Sasha narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even know her.”
He smiled tightly. “I’m starting to. And you just helped me understand exactly what kind of strength it took for her to walk away.”
For the first time, Sasha didn’t have a comeback.
She scoffed again, muttered something under her breath, and turned on her heels. The click of her heels faded down the street like the echo of old pain finally walking away.
Amara stood frozen, her hands clenched in her pockets, her breath shallow.
Dominic turned to her.
“You okay?”
She nodded once. Too fast.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”
A long pause.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He watched her. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t need to know. Not until you’re ready.”
Her eyes dropped.
“I don’t know if I ever will be,” she admitted.
“Then I’ll just stand beside you,” he said. “Even in silence.”
Something in her heart cracked—not in pain, but in wonder. He wasn’t asking for her past. He wasn’t asking for explanations or apologies.
He was just here.
And that terrified her.
Because real kindness had always come with a price before.
And she wasn’t sure how to accept it when it didn’t.
---
They didn’t say much on the walk back.
But when he reached her driveway and paused before leaving, she turned to him.
“I had a nice time,” she said quietly.
“Me too.”
“I’m sorry I froze when she showed up.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m not ready for all of this,” she added.
“I’ll wait,” he replied.
And then, with no pressure, no expectation, just that quiet fire she was coming to recognize in him—he reached out and brushed a thumb gently across her cheek.
“Next time,” he said, “it’s your choice.”
Then he turned and walked away.
And for the first time in years, Amara stood on her porch and felt something stir deep in her soul.
Not fear.
Not regret.
But maybe…
Hope.
- Writer
