Mason leans against my side, finally giving in to sleep, his head heavy on my shoulder. Aiden stands across from us, one hand tucked into his jacket pockets, posture careful—like he’s giving me space on purpose. The elevator hums softly as it climbs, numbers lighting up one by one, and with every floor my nerves wind tighter.
No one speaks.
The doors slide open onto a quiet hallway washed in dim light. Plush carpet. Muted art on the walls. Everything about this place whispers money without ever raising its voice. Aiden leads the way, his footsteps measured, stopping in front of a door that looks like every other door—except it clearly isn’t.
He unlocks it and steps back to let me in first.
The penthouse is… exactly what I expect. And somehow worse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, the city spread out below like a living map of light. Clean lines. Neutral tones. Minimalist furniture arranged with artistic intention instead of comfort. It’s beautiful in the way museums are beautiful—curated, immaculate, and not meant to be touched.
A lonely man’s space, my brain supplies unhelpfully.
“Wow,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Aiden shrugs. “It’s just a place.”
It’s not, though. It’s him. Controlled. Quiet. Carefully contained.
I carry Mason down the hall while Aiden flicks on lamps, soft pools of light replacing the stark city glow. He opens a door on the left. “You can each have a guest room. Bathroom’s attached. Or if you want to share, that could work, too. Both have king beds.”
The room is nicer than any hotel I could afford right now. Crisp sheets. A throw blanket folded with military precision at the foot. A small nightlight already plugged in by the bed.
I lay Mason down carefully, easing his shoes off, tugging the blanket up to his chin. He stirs, murmurs something about dragons, then goes still.
I straighten slowly and turn back to Aiden before my courage evaporates. I nod toward the hall, so we end up there. I don’t want to Mason to hear any of this. “We need ground rules.”
He nods immediately. “Okay.”
“I’ll take you up on the separate rooms,” I continue, voice steady even though my pulse is racing. “This is temporary. Just until the bar reopens. And we don’t…” I swallow. “We don’t talk about the past. Agreed?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping once. “Agreed.”
He travels down the hallway to a closet and returns with a stack of towels. Our fingers brush—just barely—but the jolt of awareness is immediate and unwelcome.
I pull my hand back faster than necessary. “Thanks. For everything.”
“If you need anything,” he replies, equally careful, “My bedroom is at the other end of the hall.” He steps away without another word, leaving me standing there with a borrowed sense of safety and a past I just invited back into my life.
I go to the room next to Mason’s, close the door softly, and lean my forehead against it, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
This is fine, I tell myself. Temporary. Practical. It means nothing. I’m a mom. Moms do what they must for their kids.
Even if it’s torturously awkward.
And yet, as I look around the room, I know with sinking certainty that I’ve just crossed a line I worked very hard not to cross. I went back to a man once, and ended up in a tepid marriage that everyone told me I should be grateful for. I will not go back to a man who broke me in a single night. I am smarter than that. I have to be.
Sleep doesn’t come, so I pile into Mason’s room. I don’t want him to wake up and be scared because he doesn’t know where he is. I curl myself around him and count his breaths, hoping that will lull me to sleep.
Mason breathes slow and even beside me, one arm flung over his head, curls damp with leftover sweat from fear and adrenaline. The guest room is too quiet. Too pristine. The sheets smell like detergent. Or, they did until two smoky people laid on them.
I hear the faint hum of the city through the glass, distant traffic and sirens reminding me that life is still moving somewhere outside this bubble. And I hear Aiden.
Not clearly. Not footsteps or voices. Just the sense of him in the other room. It’s not really hearing, I guess. I feel him near. His presence presses in on me, heavy and unmistakable, like gravity I forgot how to resist.
This was a mistake, I tell myself.
Not in the dramatic, world-ending sense. In the quiet, practical way. The way choices look fine on paper but unravel the second you sit alone with them. I should have gone to a hotel. I should have crashed on Carlie’s floor. I should not be under the same roof as the man who taught me how to fall fast and be discarded faster.
