Aiden smiles, but it’s softer now. Less teasing. His gaze flicks to me, then away, like he’s suddenly aware of the line he’s standing on. He’s back to making pancakes before the moment gets awkward.
Mason chews thoughtfully, then looks up. “Aiden?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Did you know my mom before I was born?”
My heart drops, and the room stills in a way that sucks all the oxygen out of the room. Aiden glances at me, just briefly, like he’s checking where the landmines are buried.
He’s not sure what to say on the matter, and I can relate.
I force my voice to work. “Aiden is Aunt Carlie’s brother. We met a long time ago.”
Mason frowns. “Should I call you Uncle Aiden?”
“Not necessary,” he blurts.
“Did you used to be friends?”
“Yes,” I say too fast.
Aiden’s jaw tightens. He keeps his eyes on the stove, flipping another pancake that doesn’t need flipping.
Mason isn’t done. He rarely is. “Then how come you never visited us in Phoenix?”
Aiden stills completely.
I open my mouth. Close it. There is no good answer. No simple one.
“Do you hate the desert, too?” Mason continues, blessedly oblivious to the tension in the room. “Mom hates the desert.”
Before either of us can speak, the doorbell rings, and we both jump a little. Aiden looks toward the front door. Then at me. Something unspoken passes between us.
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly.
My heart still pounds as I walk away, leaving unanswered questions and half-cooked pancakes behind me. The doorbell rings again before I even reach it. Short. Sharp. Impatient.
My pulse is already racing by the time I cross the living space, the sound echoing strangely in the open penthouse. Behind me, I still feel the tension I left in the kitchen, with Aiden too quiet, Mason too curious.
When I open the door, Carlie stands in the hallway outside the penthouse, perfectly put together in a way that has alwaysmade me feel slightly underdressed by comparison. Her hair is sleek, her posture rigid, her expression carefully blank.
Her eyes flick over me, pointedly staring at my lack of pants.
I’m wearing Aiden’s shirt. A pan sizzles faintly from the kitchen, perking her attention that direction. Mason’s laugh drifting through the open space. And then Aiden emerges into the periphery of my vision. Shirtless, standing in the middle of his pristine apartment.
His voice is tentative. “Morning, Carlie.”
Carlie’s mouth tightens. Her gaze sharpens instead, narrowing as it locks back onto my face. There’s no surprise there. No confusion. Just something hard and assessing, like she’s confirming a suspicion she didn’t want to be right about. She doesn’t break eye contact with me when she coolly says, “Aiden.”
The air between us thickens, heavy with things no one is saying.
“Mason’s here,” I say, uselessly. “We were just?—”
“Making breakfast,” Carlie finishes, eyes flicking once more toward the kitchen. Her tone is controlled, but there’s an edge under it now.
Mason’s footsteps patter closer, probably still tracking loose flour off his clothes. “Aunt Carlie! We made hero pancakes!”
Carlie’s expression softens just enough to acknowledge him. “Hi, sweetheart.”
