“I hate this. I hate feeling like I can’t protect my own life. My own kid.”
“You’re protecting him right now,” he says immediately. “You’re being smart about it.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Funny. That’s what David used to say every time he made a decision for me.”
Aiden’s granite jaw clenches, just a fraction. “I’m not him.”
Silence stretches again, heavier now, filled with things we’re not saying. The bar. Marcus. Six years of unresolved bullshit pressing in from all sides.
“I should call my lawyer,” I say finally. “And my insurance.”
“I’ll walk you through it. I’ve dealt with this kind of aftermath before.”
Of course he has. Firefighter. Fixer. The man who runs toward disasters and knows how to clean up after them.
I nod, hating how grateful I feel for his competence. And how jealous of it. If there’s a cola syrup shortage at work, I know exactly what to do. Broken glass in the ice machine? I’m your girl. But this? This is beyond me.
And I hate that I have to lean on Aiden for more help.
Mason shifts on the floor, stretching. “Mom,” he says, voice suddenly sleepy. “Can we make dinner tonight?”
I guess food is on his mind. I’ll take that over the alternative. “Yes, we can.”
Aiden leaves for work not long after breakfast. His turnout gear isn’t involved—just a plain shirt, boots, keys in hand. A day shift. Normal hours. The kind of schedule that belongs to a life with routines I don’t share. No such thing as normal hours when you own a bar.
He pauses by the door, glancing at Mason, then at me.
“I’ll check in.” It’s not a question.
“I know,” I reply.
He hesitates like there’s more he wants to say, then decides against it. The door closes behind him, and the penthouse goes quiet in a way that presses against my brain.
If Aiden hadn’t gotten that call from the fire inspector, how different would things be now? We would have had an entirely different conversation when he stepped out of his office. He might have admitted that he… well, I’m not entirely sure what he would have admitted.
I heard him tell her, “If we do this, that means I’m involved. Which means it’ll go wrong.”
And Carlie said, “That’s Dad talking.”
We’ve been best friends since childhood, but she almost never talks about her father. All I know is that he left them when she was young, which means Aiden was more aware of the state of his parents relationship than she was. He told her we’d go wrong, and she countered by saying that’s their father talking… which means his father blamed himself for the divorce? I’m not sure. Maybe his father told him he was a screw-up or something.
I don’t know. But if a man Aiden hasn’t seen in decades is the person screwing up his love life, then we need to do something about it.
Mason settles onto the couch with his tablet, legs tucked under him, humming softly while bright colors flash across the screen. I hover nearby longer than necessary, pretending to tidy a space that doesn’t need it. The place is too clean, too orderly, like it’s waiting for its real owner to come back and put it back in use.
I make lunch from the groceries Aiden stocked—grilled cheese and apple slices. Simple. Familiar. We eat at the island, our feet dangling above the floor, Mason kicking his legs absently.
“Can we stay here forever?” he asks around a mouthful of cheese.
“No,” I say gently. “This is just for a little while.”
“Oh,” he says, then shrugs. “Okay.”
After lunch, I shepherd him into the massive bathroom to brush his teeth. He peers at his reflection while he works, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he growls like a wild animal at himself and makes claws with his fingers.
I snort a laugh at him. “You’re a monster.”
“A bear. Rawr!”
